


The Lost Emperor

by House_Blackfyre



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon is a manwhore. Jon is not., Alternate Universe - Rhaegar won, Blood Magic, Dark Character, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Magic, Dom/sub, Dragon Riders, Dragonlord Jon Snow, Emotional Infidelity, Erotica, F/F, F/M, High Fantasy, House Targaryen, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, King Rhaegar, Lannister Incest, Maledom/Femsub, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Daenerys, POV Jon Snow, Period-Typical Underage, Polyamory, Polygamy, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Jon, R plus L equals J, Rhaegar Lives, Sibling Incest, Strong Female Characters, Tags Are Hard, Targaryen Incest, Threesome - F/F/M, Violence, Warg Arya Stark, Warg Jon Snow, Wargs, more relationship tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-06 14:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 153,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12819756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_Blackfyre/pseuds/House_Blackfyre
Summary: With a successful expedition to the forbidden lands of Old Valyria, dragons have returned to the world accompanied by the resurgence of powerful magic. The Targaryens are not the only faction that seeks to harness the eldritch powers for their own ends. In the third century of Aegon’s dynasty their reign and very existence will be threatened as it has never been before.





	1. Samwell Tarly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a long one!
> 
> Artwork by naomimakesart

Samwell Tarly:

 

Samwell was nervous. Even more so than usual. Though in this case, his nervousness was likely justified by any who knew of the position he was thrusted into. It had been four years since he had set foot in Westeros and while he felt a certain giddiness in returning to his homeland, he knew that his welcome would be anything but joyful.

 _‘Damn you Jon’_ Sam thought sourly though any feelings of resentment vanished before they could even form. He understood the reasons why Jon had sent him ahead of his own arrival but still he couldn’t shake the feeling that his friend had sent him for all intended purposes to the lion’s den.  _Dragon’s Den_ Samwell corrected himself. Still, he understood why it had to be him. He was the only highborn that wouldn’t be beheaded or thrown in chains on sight, once word reached the capital of their arrival. Sam had only been a boy when he set out with Jon on their adventure across the narrow seas so no one in the right mind could blame Sam for indulging Jon’s brashness or agreeing to Lord Gerion’s crazy plans. Though Sam doubted Jon’s mother and father would spare their anger on seeing him instead of their own son.  His first night in Westeros and already he was drawing the ire of the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Sam gulped at the thought.

Their ship was a small trader vessel so unlike the vessels that Sam had grown use to in his travels across the Eastern Continent. It was little more than a pleasure barge, with a red striped hull, twenty oars and not a single defensive structure insight. The crew was a motley mix made up of the pretty Lysene with their bastard Valyrian features and other almond skinned Essosi. All of them were freed men and women granted by a lost Prince who made good on a promise. Soon enough, they would all be decently rich highborn as well with lands of their own once their wayward prince finally returned home.

Sam suppressed another sigh as the ship glided across the dark waters of Blackwater Bay. The sun was high in the sky causing drops of sweat to drip down from his brow. There was a mummer of excitement that passed through the inhabitants of his vessel as they neared the beach. He could make out the unmistakable sight of a small army of Gold Cloaks who arranged themselves in a barrier to shield the Royal family from the rather large gathering of small folk who craned their necks, shoved and shouted to get a better look of the approaching vessel. In the center of the shield of gold, sunlight glinted off the white armor of the Kingsguard. There six of them standing regally in the blazing light of the morning sun.

Samwell realized that if all six kingsguard were on the beach save for the lone Lannister who was still guarding the wayward Prince then that meant the entire royal family was there. He was soon proven correct as they drew closer. Spotting King Rhaegar next to his wife Queen Lyanna, Princess Daenerys was on the other side of the King looking nearly as impatient as Jon’s mother.  Viserys was there with his three young daughters, as was Jon’s half siblings Crown Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys and next to them was Jon’s full sister Princess Visenya who only been a girl when Jon left. She had grown in the meantime, sprouting into a beauty of Valyrian features like her aunt. Even the Dowager Queen Rhaella was present standing next to her daughter.  It was a rare occurrence seeing the matriarch of the Targaryen house leave Dragonstone.

Time seemed to slow as the ship came to a stop along the beach. Jon had instructed Sam to send a raven months in advance, to announce their arrival. Apparently, it had caused such a stir within Kingslanding that the King had instructed them to land on a beach of the Blackwater, outside of the city walls so as not to disrupt port traffic into the city. That precaution apparently hadn’t stopped what seemed like half of the city to flow outward to catch a sight of the returning prince. Sam could only imagine how disappointed everyone would be once they found out the Prince wasn’t within the arrival party.

Sam was the first one off the ship and his crew of former slaves followed him with wide eyes at the large gathering of people. A murmur went through the crowd at the sight of them. No doubt anyone had expected such an exotic group of people. Still Sam could feel a nervous tingle run up his spine as he saw eyes searching for a certain dark haired Targaryen.

He had barely kneeled before the royal family when a voice Sam didn’t think hear again so soon spoke out in exclamation “Samwell?” That was the strong voice of his Father. Surprise lined his voice instead of the usual anger or disdain that Sam remembered all too well.

“Father?” Sam chanced a glance upwards, meeting the questioning gaze of his father. Randyll Tarly looked exactly as Sam remembered. Tall with a strong jawline and steely dark eyes. He was bald with a well maintained grey beard gracing his jawline and upper lips. His expression was something unlike Sam had seen before especially in his direction. Filled with question and maybe even wonder. Sam realized then how different he must have looked in comparison to how he did he when he left.

Sam had been a fat boy. Truly huge with no athletic ability or warrior spirit. He preferred food and books rather than a sword or horse. Paired that with his cowardice and aversion to violence or bloodshed, his Lord Father had all but disowned Sam and was intending on sending him to take the black before Sam had met and became fast friends with Prince Jaehaerys ‘Jon’ Targaryen. Now after four years of travel, harsh conditions, nearly being killed more times than he could count and going multiple nights without food or sweets, Sam had trimmed down drastically. He wasn’t as lean as Jon nor did he truly have much muscle definition but Sam imagined he must be nearly unrecognizable.   

Queen Lyanna interrupted their reunion. “Samwell where is my son?” Her tone was sharp and demanding. Understandable for a mother whose only son stole off into the night and hadn’t been in contact with his family for four years. Samwell cringed all the same, shrinking from the combined glare of the concerned family.

“Yes, where is Jon?” That was the King’s voice. The monarch was renowned for his patience and cool demeanor but now his tone mirrored his wife’s. He was dressed in a rich red and black doublet and pants which contrasted with his wife’s elegant grey dress. They both wore crowns Rhaegar’s a circlet of Valyrian steel with square inlaid rubies and Lyanna’s a small golden band with a ring of sapphires worked into the gold. Rhaegar was tall and fair with silver hair and purple eyes of the traditional Targaryen features. Lyanna had soft brown locks that tumbled down her back and grey eyes that were the color of stormy skies. Everyone said that Jon favored his mother in looks and while it was true that Jon had her eyes and black hair instead of silver, Sam could see how much Jon looked like his father now that he had matured out of boyhood.

“Uh… Sorry your grace. Jon didn’t travel with me.” There was a groan that went through the crowd at his words. Sam shuffled nervously. He knew that was the most likely reaction but it didn’t sit well with him disappointing so many people.

“Well then where is he?” Queen Lyanna who had always been sweet to him had a look on her comely face that promised murder. Her husband noticed her mood and squeezed her hand comfortingly. He motioned for Samwell to rise.

“Jon’s a bit busy in Pentos right now. He’s there with Ser Jaime, Lord Tyrion and Lord Gerion. Last time I checked he was in good health and told me to apologize on his behalf for the delay.” Sam smiled apologetically.

“What could be so important that he can’t come see his family after all these years?” Queen Lyanna asked tears brimming her grey eyes. Sam shifted awkwardly as he noticed similar expressions in many of the women of the Targaryen clan. They all seemed genuinely hurt and angry at Jon’s delay. Those forlorn looks vanished as a white blur made a timely appearance, leaping out of the ship and bounding towards the royal family.

“Ghost!” Multiple voices shouted in unison as the Giant White Direwolf greeted them eagerly. He was massive now, as tall as a war horse and lean with corded muscle hidden by a huge coat of fur. The wolf seemed to melt under the attention rolling onto his back in the sand as multiple hands rubbed his belly.

Samwell smiled at the sight. _Good timing_. “Jon let me know that he should be here in no longer than a fortnight. He is preparing something quite extravagant that will undoubtedly justify his travels.”

“Nothing can justify four years away with barely a letter explaining where he’s gone.” That was Princess Daenerys voice adding to disdain against Jon. A nod from mother, grandmother and sister confirmed that her opinion was of the majority.  Samwell almost felt sorry for Jon when he came back. His friend certainly thought that the treasures and discoveries they made on their travels would wholly justify his long hiatus from the Seven Kingdoms. Now Samwell was certain for all of Jon’s heroism, honor and nobility the man truly was ignorant of how women worked. He would certainly have his work cut out for him on making amends.

“I’m sorry, Princess. Trust me when I say this but Jon wanted to send a letter to all of you but our location for much of our journey made communication impossible. He understands as well as anyone the strain that his journey has place on all of you and I know that he will make amends with all of you when he does return.”

Queen Rhaella smiled at Sam. “Sweet words Samwell. No wonder Jon sent you in his place. If he were here he would be stumbling over his words and crumbling under my family’s stares.”

Sam laughed at that nodding agreement. “Yes, Jon was smart to send me but I insist his delay is with good reason.”

“Can you tell where you’ve all been Sam? And what you have been doing all this time? We’ve heard rumors but it’s was so long before you sent that letter that we feared something terrible happened to you.”  Lyanna’s voice had softened but her eyes conveyed her insistence

for answers.

Samwell couldn’t help but feel some guilt at the distress of his best friend’s mother. It had been he along with Tyrion Lannister who convinced Jon four years ago, that sending any detail about their journey would likely result in them being intercepted before they could make any progress. As a result of his council, Jon’s letters to his family were short and cryptic. Only two were sent in their entire four years away from the homeland. The first letter likely had not reached King’s Landing until they had landed in Lys. By the time the royal family could launch any sort of response they were already making their way down to Slaver’s Bay.  From then on none of them sent anymore letters as word soon reached them that King Rhaegar had offered a Lordship with accompanying lands for anyone who could bring his son home alive and well. No doubt without any word or sighting from of them for so long many probably thought Jon and his party dead. “Yes I can help fill in a lot of the details but Jon made me swear that I leave a lot of the important parts for him when he returns.”

No one seemed satisfied with his answer. Princess Daenerys looked like she was ready to voice a protest but King Rhaegar spoke first “Very well Sam. We’ll wait for the whole story when Jon returns. Go ahead Sam with what you can tell us of your journey.”

Sam glanced around at the large crowd of people suddenly feeling very uncomfortable with all the attention directed his way.  “Perhaps...we can go somewhere more private? Jon would probably want much of our story to remain with family until he returns.”

King Rhaegar nodded at that and his Kingsgaurd sprang into action ordering the Gold-cloaks to prepare for their departure.  “Oh, and those two chests should stay as close as possible to us.” Sam gestured towards the two-large chest that were being dragged onto the beach by the crew. They were made of black lacquered wood with steel bindings for reinforcement. The lock protecting their contents was thick and Sam resisted the urge to feel the ring of keys under his shirt.  King Rhaegar looked at the chest curiously before acknowledging Sam’s words and assigning guards to bring the chests with them.

The ride back to the Red Keep was awkward to say the least. Sam sat with the women of the royal family in their massive carriage as they made their way up to the city. Every single one of them were scrutinizing him as if he himself had devised the plan that took Jon away from them for so long. Jon’s little sister Princess Visenya sat next to him and was the only one who could smile at him with good nature. She was three years younger than Jon and had only been ten when Jon left. Now at nearly five and ten she had grown into a beauty like her mother but with her father’s silver hair and her mother’s grey eyes. Her body had just begun to sprout into womanhood so she was still lean with little curves. Undoubtedly when Jon returned he would have his work cut out for him fending off her suitors.

Princess Daenerys and Princess Rhaenys were two very different classical beauties. The former was the picture of centuries of Valyrian breeding with pale skin, long silver hair and lilac eyes. The years that gone by had only enhanced her beauty adding a curvaceousness to her small figure that bewitched men. _Bewitched Jon._ Princess Rhaenys was taller than Princess Daenerys. Olive skinned where Princess Daenerys was fair, with dark curls that ran in rivets down her back. The only feature that denoted her half Targaryen heritage was her purple eyes which were much darker than Daenerys’ eyes. Princess Rhaenys was the tallest woman in the carriage, nearly as tall as Sam. Queen Lyanna and the Dowager Queen Rhaella were seated next to each other. They too stared at Sam, silently forming a multitude of questions that Sam would probably struggle to answer.

Princess Visenya spoke first breaking the tense silence. “How is Jon? Is he any different from when he left?”

“Well he’s taller now.” That drew some laughter from his audience. “More confident I suppose as well. Someone who leads by example and won’t ask you to do something that he’s not willing to do himself.” Sam added. There were things he didn’t say though. His best friend had gone from a boy who was unsure of his place to a man confident in his abilities. That hadn’t come without cost though. Jon had a darkness in him now that sometimes frightened Sam.

“Why didn’t you send more letters?” Queen Rhaella asked. Her voice was as smooth as harp note. Her purple eyes didn’t hold much of the same ferocity as her daughters by blood and marriage but her voice conveyed the same concern.

“We wanted to...Jon wanted to, trust me. But we had heard that there was a large ransom out for anyone who could return Jon home.” His words hung heavily in the air. As much as Jon didn’t want to cause distress to his family by letting the assume something terrible happened to him due to his silence, what he wanted more was not to be found until it was on his terms.

Princess Visenya who seemed the most unburden by thoughts spoke again “Why did Jon leave? What was he hoping to accomplish?”

Sam shifted nervously and couldn’t help but look at Princess Daenerys who caught his eye. She leaned in closer waiting for his answer. _That’s definitely a question for Jon._ “Uh… I can’t speak for Jon entirely. His reasons are his own and I’m sure that he can explain them for you all when he returns.” He offered diplomatically.

Queen Lyanna didn’t seem satisfied with his answer though and inquired further. “I’m sure you have an insight into his motives that you can share with us. You were his closest companion for four years.”

“Yes, why don’t you tell us what possessed my half-brother to cause such a shit-storm.” Princess Rhaenys had an accent that was a mix of King’s Landing and Dornish that caused all her words to roll off the tip of her tongue. This was Sam’s first time speaking with her but from all Jon’s stories about his half-sister’s temper and disdain for him she caused a feeling of apprehension to run up his spine. 

“Well. I think what Jon intends is to bring back something that would bring his family great honor. He went on about restoring your legacy.”

“So, did he succeed?” Princess Visenya inquired eagerly. It appeared she had already forgiven her brother and was eager to hear stories of his adventure as well as looking forward to their eventual reunion. Though by the looks of the other inhabitants of their large carriage none of them were as quick to forgive.

Sam smiled at the young beauty. “Oh yes. I believe he did.”

The rest of the ride to the Red Keep was filled with a barrage of questions which Sam did his best to answer without spoiling too much of the story that Jon wished to tell on his own or deflecting as his answers would likely be repeated once they reached the castle. He did his best but by the time the carriage door opened to the courtyard of the Red Keep, Sam could tell most of his audience was frustrated by his answers or rather by the lack of them.

Following the guide of the Kingsguard the royal family was lead to the King’s solar. Sam felt even more out of place as he sat amongst the entirety of the Targaryen line. Behind them servants set down the two-large chest and exited quickly. The doors were sealed leaving Sam alone with Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy being the only individuals besides himself who weren’t of the royal bloodline. Across from him sat King Rhaegar, his wife sat to his left and Jon’s elder brother, the crown prince, Aegon sat to his right. The others filled in the seats around the ornate carved table with Princess Daenerys and Princess Visenya taking the seats closest to him.  Once they were all settled Rhaegar addressed him “Samwell I believe you have a story to tell us?”

“Yes, of course your grace.” Sam tried not to notice the collection of stares he received but his hands already felt clammy. Visenya squeezed his knee in support and he let out a deep breath before beginning. “As you all know, four years ago me, Jon, Tyrion, Jaime and Lord Gerion left Lannisport to sail to Essos.”

“Under the guise of visiting Oldtown and Dorne” Aegon corrected. He was taller than his father now with broader shoulders and hair that was blonde instead of silver. Strands ran down to his chiseled jawline with the rest of it held up in a high tail.

Sam nodded at the crown Prince stuttering as he continued “Yes. We actually did visit many cities along the coastline including Oldtown and Sunspear but of course we continued east without anyone other than our crew knowing our true destination.”

“We stopped in Lys for a few days to resupply. Added new crew members and then sailed for Volantis. Once we were there that’s when it was time to flesh out our plan.”

“Where did you stay in Volantis?” Queen Lyanna asked.

Sam blinked and looked at Prince Viserys who paled once everyone directed their attention to him.

“So you did know where they went?” Queen Lyanna growled. Viserys had left Westeros a few years before them with the goal of finding a wife of Valyrian blood. The rich families of Volantis, the only ones who could reside behind the ancient black walls built by Valyrians in the days when the freehold was the dominant power on the continent had family lines that could be traced all the way back to days before the Doom. Viserys had found a wife from one of the influential families in the city and was residing with her when they first landed in Volantis. They had stayed in his family’s estate for several moons before continuing on with their journey and Prince Viserys was well aware of what they intended.

“You lied to us! For years, you claimed you had no idea where he went!” Princess Daenerys was livid and looked likely to leap from her chair and pounce on her brother across the wide table. Even the King looked at Viserys with a look that was somewhere between anger and disappointment.

Sam cleared his throat bringing the attention back to him. He smiled at Viserys apologetically. “To be fair Jon threatened Prince Viserys if he told anyone. We didn’t actually think he would hold out all this time.”

Viserys seemed to take offence to the statement. “When I give my word, I don’t go back on it.”

“Yes, and we thank you for that.” Trying to ignore the glares that came his way Sam continued. “The Venigars were actually quite helpful in getting us the documentation that we needed to successfully plan our journey. “

“You knew that they were planning to go to Valyria? You didn’t think to warn any of us?” Queen Lyanna’s tone was icy and if looks could kill then the Kingsguard would have one less charge to care about.

“Yes, I knew what he was planning. Told him not to go but when does that brat ever listen to anyone much less me? He had a Kingsguard for protection and two Lords from the richest house in the Kingdom planning and financing their trip. My words weren’t going to sway him. After all you denying him Daenerys is what caused him to go anyway. Don’t blame this on me.”

The words were like a slap and the air went out of Queen Lyanna’s lungs at Viserys rebuttal.  His sneer lost some of his venom as King Rhaegar wheeled on him “Watch your tone brother. You’re speaking to my wife.” The King’s eyes held an anger that was akin to his sons. They were of similar temperament, slow to anger but when the fire was lit it was a fury.

Viserys held his brothers gaze for a moment and Sam briefly thought Viserys was foolish enough to challenge his elder brother. Even without the protection of the Kingsguard Rhaegar would trash Viserys. Rhaegar was a warrior whose talent passed to both of his sons, Viserys had a mountain of pride but a shadow of their ability.  Eventually Viserys dropped his stare, composing his face. “Apologies brother.”

“Apologize to my wife. That’s where the offence lies.” King Rhaegar’ s voice was strong leaving no room for dissent.

“I’m sorry for the offence _your grace._ I was out of line.” Viserys said amenably though none were fooled in believing his sincerity.

“You sent the boy to die Viserys. You knew the risk and let your own blood go on a foolish adventure.” Viserys seemed genuinely hurt by the accusation made by his mother and wilted under her stare.

“But we didn’t die and without Prince Viserys’ help and his connections we probably would have.” Samwell added quickly, deciding that Viserys had endured enough punishment. He stood from his chair and unlocked one of the chest behind him. All eyes were on him when he pulled an unmistakable sword shaped bundle from the chest. It was wrapped in the banners of house Targaryen: a red three headed dragon on a black field. “This is from Jon. He knew that regardless if you kept your word about our trip or not your family would be have reason to be angry with you.”

Prince Viserys gingerly took the bundle from Sam’s hands. Unwrapping the cloth revealed a black scabbard of solid, high quality wood with the symbol of house Targaryen stamped upon its length.  The hilt of the longsword was unadorned with simple black leather and a steel pommel and cross guard. Gasp went through the room when Viserys pulled the sword from it’s sheath revealing the characteristic swirls of Valyrian steel.

“Most of the original hilts were ruined so we had to replace them with simple hilts. Jon was sure that you would change them anyway.”

“Hilts? You found multiple swords?” That was the elder Kingsguard knight Ser Barristan, he sounded like a boy who was seeing his first tourney.

“Yes. We found several swords. Enough for every man on the Kingsguard, for the royal family and one for a certain member of House Stark. Gerion also found Brightroar, House Lannister’s ancestral great sword.” The royal family was speechless as Sam handed out the priceless weaponry. King Rhaegar was given a great sword, Prince Aegon a long sword. All the ladies of the family were given daggers whose hilts were made of dragon bone and had survived the harsh conditions of the ruin of the freehold. “Jon knew that even Valyrian steel wouldn’t replace Dawn but he told me to give you a longsword anyway just in case you decide you need to fight with a shield.” Sam said to Ser Arthur who seemed awestruck like the rest of them.

“How is this possible Sam? There are more swords here than all of Westeros. We could build entire city if we sold them.” Prince Aegon asked. The dark blue blade of his longsword seemed to mesmerize him.

“We found a way in to the Valyrian Peninsula.” Sam answered.

“That’s not possible. Every single person whether they be King or a common sailor who’s tried to enter Valyria has never been heard from again.” Princess Visenya exclaimed factually.

“I’ll admit it wasn’t easy. We spent half a year researching every large expedition taken to reclaim the secrets of Valyria. From King Tommen of Casterly Rock, fleets from Volantis and even the last dragonlord Aurion.” He said the last part under his breath and visible shudder went through his body as he voiced the name.

“Aurion was the last of the dragonlords other than our family. He raised an army and declared himself empire of Valyria and then marched to reclaim it. He was never seen again.” Sam recalled Jon telling him that his younger sister was very fond of history and was prone to spout off facts when there were lulls in conversation. Apparently, time hadn’t dulled her curiosity.

“That’s correct. Aurion’s journey was one of the main focuses of our research. He had a large army and sent multiple scouts ahead of their column to report conditions. While the bulk of the force was never seen again including Aurion and his dragon, a detailed account of their journey before their disappearance resides in the library of Volantis.”

“So you simply followed the steps of a dead man and found the biggest treasure trove in history?” Prince Aegon scoffed.

“Well we also took in reports of all the known ships that went missing in the smoking sea and investigated anyone who could give reports of travels into Valyria. It took us a year before we finally decided on our initial path and another three months were spent gathering a crew that wouldn’t descend into mutiny. There were a lot of setbacks in the smoking seas though and we finally decided to travel to Qohor and followed the path of Aurion.”

“You traveled almost all of Essos?” Queen Lyanna was stunned and leaned back in her chair seemingly faint from the knowledge.

Sam nodded. “We had to pursue every lead. None of us intended on dying due to the lack of information.”

“That seems too easy” Prince Aegon said. “There’s a lot you’re leaving out.”

“Well we did get attacked by a Dothraki horde and Jon and Jaime slew a Dothraki warlord and his blood riders. Multiple attacks by pirates. Jon was briefly kidnapped by warlocks who were outsmarted by Tyrion. And we were chased by men sent from a powerful Volantene family for months before we lost them.” The words poured from his lips before he realized what he was saying but the damage had been done. Prince Aegon and Princess Visenya looked impressed. Princess Rhaenys looked surprised an expression that was shared by the Kingsguard. Queen Rhaella and Princess Daenerys looked even more concerned. Prince Viserys had the usual smugness that seemed to permanently decorate his face but even his eyes widen at the tale. Queen Lyanna looked horrified and King Rhaegar’s face was unreadable.

The King was the first one to speak. “Jon is unharmed?” Concern colored his voice.

“A few more scars than he left with but he still in one piece though not for lack of trying… I swear he leaps into action like he’s an expendable foot soldier and not a prince. “Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan chuckled knowingly but the Queen and Princess Daenerys clearly weren’t amused.

“Swords and daggers are nice but still don’t make up for four years away.” Princess Daenerys muttered angrily. Queen Lyanna nodded in agreement but Prince Aegon looked ready to argue otherwise before Princess Rhaenys delivered a quick elbow to his ribs. She whispered something in his ears and Aegon composed himself in silence.

“We didn’t just find swords your grace.” Sam moved to the other chest and jostled with the lock. This one was locked even tighter than the one containing the swords. With three iron wrought locks all needing different individual keys to open it. A heavy clank rang throughout the room as the top peeled open revealing the contents of its cargo. There were ten large, smooth stones nestled neatly in the chest. They were an assortment of colors: onyx black, sea green, sky blue and some had veins of different colors running along their length. Whenever light hit them the scales of the stones shimmered brilliantly. In his hands the eggs felt cold and lifeless as if they were made of solid stone but he watched knowingly as wonder went across each of the Targaryen’s faces’ as he placed the eggs in their hands.

“I can feel the warmth!”

“I can too. It’s like somethings moving beneath the surface.”

Only the Dowager Queen and the King seemed reserved. Samwell suddenly remembered the tragedy at Summerhall where the King was born. Queen Rhaella was among the members of the Targaryen clan that tried hatching dragons. She placed her dragon egg on the table as if to distance herself from it. “Don’t worry your grace. We know the mistakes of the past and aren’t trying to repeat them. “

Noticing the discomfort of her grandmother, Princess Rhaenys addressed Sam. “They’re beautiful Samwell but I don’t think finding pretty fossils is restoring our family’s legacy.”

Sam nodded in agreement. “I would agree with you but we have a pretty good idea of how to hatch them.”

A near unified “What?” Was the answer to his statement.

“How?” Princess Rhaenys asked.

“Hatching Dragon eggs is dangerous. Since the last dragon died out everyone whose tried has ended up dead.” The Dowager Queen voiced her concern.

“Yes, everyone has failed before but they didn’t have most of the knowledge that we acquired on our Journey. Jon is Pentos right now securing the final pieces for the hatching ritual.”

“Hatching ritual?” Princess Visenya asked.

“Yes” Sam scratched his head in embarrassment “Admittedly we don’t know all of the details about the ritual or exactly how it works but we do have a general idea.” 

“And what is that idea? Fire and blood?” Queen Rhaella scowled. Sam winced at the disdain in the voice of the normally genial natured matriarch.

“Fire and blood are needed in sufficient quantities. What was lacking in previous rituals was a good deal of Valyrian steel though we have that now.  We also have a number of Qohorki warlocks who accompanied us throughout our Journey who are more familiar with the magic necessary to hatch dragons.”

His words only seemed to seemed to make Queen Rhaella’s mood worse. “You don’t think we had fire and blood magic? There were warlocks at Summerhall probably as foolish as the ones that you’re bringing here. Magic is dangerous boy. Sailing the smoking seas and finding fancy swords doesn’t change that.”

Sam remained silent. There was a lot of things that he could have said. The weapons and the eggs weren’t the only things that they brought back from their travels. They had seen things that he would scarcely believe if it weren’t for his own two eyes. Even now he wasn’t sure what was reality and what was hallucinations. He had a healthy fear of magic as well and thought that Queen Rhaella’s skepticism was well placed but Sam had personally seen the power of Targaryen blood and knew that power could be harnessed if done correctly. 

Queen Rhaella’s hostility ended the discussion about the dragon eggs and hatching them. Other members of the family questioned Sam about other details of his journey. From why they went all the way to Qohor, to how they ran into the Dothraki and how Jon ended up kidnapped by warlocks. Rhaegar and Lyanna seemed immensely relieved when Sam ensured them that Jon emerged unscathed. The questions turned to why a Volantene magister sent men after them, Sam struggled for a suitable answer.

“Well he had the opinion that Jon stole his daughter.” Sam said sheepishly. Gasp went out across the room.

“Jon would never do that” Queen Lyanna protested.

“No but she did run away with us and Jon did help her escape.” He answered.

“She must be beautiful” Princess Daenerys said with a strange tone to her voice.

“She was but Jon didn’t help her because of her looks. In fact, the two of them didn’t get a long for a long while. Or at least they convinced themselves that they didn’t like one another.” He replied earnestly.

“Was? Did something happen to her?” Queen Lyanna chimed in.

Sam nodded solemnly “She died on the way back from Qohor in the Dothraki sea.” 

“How did Jon react to her death?” Sympathetic faces lined the visages of the royal family. Even Prince Viserys had the decency to look like he cared for his nephew’s loss.

“Jon avenged her death. The Dothraki he and Jaime killed were among her murders.”

After his revelation, the conversation was mute in comparison to the start. They grappled with the knowledge that Jon had lost so much at a young age. Princess Daenerys and Queen Lyanna seemed to take the knowledge the hardest and the queen mother openly wept while Princess Daenerys had such sadness on her face that every time Sam caught her eye his heart broke. After a time, the family began filing out of the solar until Sam stood alone with Prince Aegon and the king. They noticed Sam lingered.

“Is there anymore that you wish to share with us Sam?” King Rhaegar asked. He looked haggard and Sam knew that the King wanted nothing more than to go comfort his wife.

“Your grace. I thought that I should only share this with you both at least until Jon gets here. And a plan can be made.” He said in a hushed tone.

“Plan? What are you going on about?” Prince Aegon asked. 

“Quiet Aegon” King Rhaegar scolded. “Let him speak.”

“When were in the ruins, Jon became separated from our group for nearly a week… When we found, him he was talking to himself and barely recognized us. He tried running away from us even from Ghost.”

The two men paled at the news. They shared a look that spoke volumes. “Are you saying..” Aegon started but trailed off.

“He didn’t recover until we were halfway to Volantis. We thought we were going to lose him when his fever lasted over a week.  Every night he had nightmares and would wake up screaming. It got so bad that we were going to restrain him but Ghost wouldn’t allow it and would snarl at anyone who attempted to.”

“You said he recovered? Fully?”

Sam shook his head. “Jon doesn’t think we know but I’ve heard him still have his nightmares. He tries to hide it but I’ve seen him stare at the sky like he’s expecting something.”

“Why would he be expecting something from the sky?”

“Jon is convinced that we woke up something. He thinks that whatever was of Valyria was stirred by our presence.”

“Do you believe him?” Prince Aegon all but whispered. His face looked horrified.

Sam shook his head. “We searched everywhere in those days that Jon was gone. There was no change. Everything there is dead and broken.”

“So is his plan about hatching Dragons nonsense?” Rhaegar swallowed hard. “Due to his _madness?”_

“No Jon might be right about that. He has kind of a proven track record.”

“A proven track record? What are you saying?” King Rhaegar asked.

“Jon has a dragon.” Sam answered simply. The two Targaryens quieted as they stewed on the information. A _mad dragon rider._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to the incredibly awesome GOT88 for editing my terrible grammar. If there any mistakes still then it is mostly likely my fault not including his corrections.


	2. Aegon Targaryen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. I would like to thank you all for the kind words and huge amount of support this story’s first chapter has been receiving. Everyone who has commented and followed/added to their favorites the story has provided ample motivation for me to continue writing this.  
> If you are reading this on Archive of Our Own then you have probably seen the incest warnings have given this story. I wanted to reiterate that this is a Targaryen centric story and incest is certainly a key part of their mythos.  
> This chapter is a bit shorter than the last one because it is one half of a larger one that I have been working on. The second part of this will be posted soon. The stopping point felt natural, so that is why I split it. Second half is in the works as well as Jon's chapter.  
> Syraxes is pronounced: Sigh – rax – ees

The Lost Emperor Chapter 2:

Aegon Targaryen:

“How far along is he?” His father asked Sam. The three of them were alone in the solar, the rest of their family had departed to digest what Sam had shared with them previously. No doubt they would be even more distraught at this news.

“He’s not as bad as his grandfather. He knows who he is and I think the person he was is still in there. But occasionally there are times when I see his is lost or somewhere else” Sam answered solemnly. Aegon could see that he was just as shaken as they were. Perhaps even more so. He is Jon’s brother as well. Not by blood but by choice.

When his brother had left four years ago, their family had been shocked. He and Rhae were in Dorne at the time visiting their mother so Aegon hadn’t had the chance to see his brother or dissuade him from doing something so stupid. Though in truth he would of likely joined Jon. That would have caused even greater of an uproar.

While most of his family were relieved that Jon was finally returning, alive and in one piece as well, Aegon couldn’t help but feel some jealously. Jealous that Jon had spent four years gallivanting around the world and skirting his duties as a prince. Jealous that it was Sam and not him who was there with Jon returning to their homeland and destroying Dothraki warlords while they were at it. He and Jon had been as close as all brothers should be. They were rivals in everything and had been practically inseparable if the choice was left up to them. He had even fostered for a few years in Winterfell with Jon and his Stark family.

Now with the news that his brother might go way of their grandfather, Aegon feared that he had never been able to say goodbye to the only brother he had ever had and had ever wanted. “Jon’s dragon. Is it big enough to be a problem?”

Sam nodded. “Syraxes hatched on our first trip to the smoking sea. Her egg was the first that we found and now she’s big enough to ride. She and Jon took their first flight a few moons ago.”

His father sighed. No doubt weighing the ramifications of having a mad dragon rider. Grandfather’s madness brought the kingdom a rebellion that nearly ended their family’s dynasty and dragons were thought extinct then. What kind of damage could their brother do if his condition ever got that bad? Could his brother be another Maegor the Cruel?

Tarly seemed to notice the apprehension on their faces. “I think Syraxes is a positive on Jon’s psyche. He seems the most astute when she is by his side. He…he hasn’t let her burn anyone or used her for cruelty if that’s what you fear.”

They both let out a sigh of relief. Maybe it wasn’t too late to prevent Jon from sliding into complete insanity. Grandfather’s paranoia only reached a fever pitch after his treatment at Duskendale. If they could save his brother from a traumatic experience and surround him with loving family, then maybe it would be enough. “Father we shouldn’t keep this from mother” he said referring to Lyanna. Rhaenys would never refer to her as that but to Aegon Lyanna was just as much his mother as the one who birthed him.

His father nodded. “I agree. Let me speak to her first and then we will tell the others. Our ladies have always been better at reading us than we have ourselves. They will probably be able to notice anything abnormal before we can.”

Aegon grimaced. Spying on Jon because they were worried about his mental state didn’t sit well with him. His brother was pensive, with a tendency brood when things weren’t going his way, wild when there was fun to be had, shy when around women, especially Daenerys but in no way was he mad. Until he could see the man Jon had become then Aegon wouldn’t believe it. The Jon he knew was tough enough that nothing could break his mental state.

“You said Jon can ride his dragon?” He asked, in order to change the subject.

Sam nodded eagerly, no doubt happy to switch to lighter topics as well. “He and Syraxes bonded the moment she hatched. He says that they are as close as him and Ghost.”

“Jon warged his dragon?” He exclaimed.

“Yes. He says reaching out to her was similar to how he would connect with other animals but now he can’t break the connection. It’s like their bonded, similar to how he and Ghost are.”

“A dragon and a direwolf. Jon gets all the luck” Aegon shook his head. His jealously running through him was reminiscent of when the Stark’s had all gotten their direwolf puppies, Jon included. To cheer him up, Robb had whispered about the legends of a dragon in the Winterfell crypts and Aegon had dragged Jon there to search for it. They returned with nothing but cobwebs in their hair.

“It must be his mother’s blood. Though I didn’t think his warg abilities would extend to dragons. No one but individuals of Targaryen descent were able to ride dragons.” His father mused.

“Maybe it’s a combination of the bloodlines? He’s both a Stark and a Targaryen, that has to mean something.” Sam added.

His father agreed. “Yes. Maybe Visenya will have the same success if we can hatch the eggs. Who knows if their ability only extends to one dragon, maybe they’ll be able to control several at a time. No other dragon rider was able to accomplish that. “

Seeing that the conversation was about to get out of hand, Aegon interrupted the undoubtedly long conversation between two like-minded scholars before it could begin. “So do you Rhae and I will get any crazy abilities? Didn’t the Rhoynar have water magic?”

“Do you know any water magic?” Sam asked without the sarcasm he expected.

“Uh… No but we can’t let the Starks have everything can we?”

“If your brother is right then you’ll soon have a dragon of your own.” Rhaegar deadpanned. In his old age his father had gotten so serious. Aegon hoped that he nor Jon went that route. “Well these developments certainly change things.”

Aegon’s ears perked. Whenever his father’s voice took that tone then it meant he was contemplating something important. “What do you mean?”

“Jon’s blood. Our blood means more than it does now than it did before. If dragons are coming back, then we have to ensure they stay.” His father looked to him to see if Aegon understood what he was alluding to. He certainly did.

Sam seemed to catch on as well. The joy on his face surprised Aegon. Normally when people thought of their family’s penchant for incest, disgust was the common emotion or at least polite disagreement if they were in said company. Sam however looked like he had won a hundred golden dragons. “Sam are you alright?” His father asked.

Sam nodded a little too eager. “Uh yes sorry. It’s just that the thought of dragons and magic is all very exciting. I’d be happy to provide any help to your family that I can. Lord Tyrion and I read a lot about dragons wherever we could and I think he we could provide some valuable insight. If isn’t too much trouble-”

His father held up a hand to stop Sam’s ramble. “Sam your help will be appreciated. We’ll discuss a formal position and payment in the morning. Now I need to go talk to my wife and you two should get some rest it is late. Aegon do you mind escorting Sam to his quarters?”

He nodded and the three of them of exited the solar. His father went off to find Lyanna and they walked in the opposite direction. Sam’s room was near his and Jon’s rooms in Maegor’s holdfast.

“Do you think this means that The King and Queen are now open to marrying Jon and Daenerys? A union between them would solidify Stark and Targaryen blood. Not to mention I think both of them would be very happy.”

Aegon stopped. “Sam you don’t know?”

“Know what?” Aegon’s heart sank. If Sam didn’t know then that meant Jon wasn’t aware as well. So much for sparing his brother emotional trauma.

“They probably would have agreed if Daenerys hadn’t married Quentyn six months ago.”

“Six months? No that’s not possible. We knew the date of the wedding; it’s not supposed to be for another three. There’s no way we could have been so wrong with our timekeeping.”

“The wedding had to be moved up. Uncle Doran got very sick and we feared that he wouldn’t make it. He wanted to see his son married in case he didn’t” Aegon said sadly.

Sam looked sick. “Do they love each other?”

“No Quentyn is nice but too soft for Daenerys. Anyone who looks at them can tell she isn’t impressed with her husband.”

Sam’s face was grim. “Perhaps that’s worse. Jon would be crushed but he wouldn’t stand in the way of her happiness. But if she’s anything like him then her feelings haven’t waned over time.”

“Would he hurt Quentyn?” Aegon asked, hating that he didn’t know the man his brother had become. Jon may have been his brother but Quentyn was blood too. The man didn’t choose to come between Jon and Dany. That was their parent’s decision that caused that. Quentyn didn’t deserve Jon’s ire.

“If Quentyn isn’t cruel to Daenerys then he is safe. Jon might be…dealing with some issues but he’s never been violent to anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

The words were a comfort but already he was imagining the headache that would occur when Jon and Dany were reunited. She hadn’t exactly been the easiest bride and the strain between her and her husband was igniting some of the long simmering tensions between his father and his uncles. They had never truly forgiven his father for Lyanna and the risk their romance had put his mother, sister and him in. The marriage between Daenerys and Quentyn was supposed to be a confirmation of the crown’s appreciation of Dorne’s loyalty. Daenerys hadn’t warmed to her husband at all though and the lack of affection between them hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“What do you think Daenerys will do?” Sam asked interrupting his train of thought.

Aegon took a second to ponder. What would she do? His young aunt was all fire but was being called the ‘Ice Queen’ in Dornish circles. Would she ruin a very important political marriage over a romance? “I don’t know “He answered honestly.

“And Quentyn? I know the Dornish are very liberal with their views on monogamy in marriage…”

“Daenerys isn’t Dornish and Quentyn might have accepted her taking other lovers if she occasionally allowed him in their marriage bed. I doubt they’ve been together since their wedding night.” He had heard of men taking bets on whether Quentyn would grow a pair and use the right of marriage to take his wife. His father would never allow it, especially with the history of their grandfather’s treatment of their grandmother. Even if his father turned a blind eye, Daenerys would likely murder the man before he could force himself on her.

“So you’re saying that he’d fight for her?” Sam asked curiously.

“Quentyn might not be a warrior but he’s a man with pride. Six months of coldness from Daenerys has made him less meek and I’m sure he’d take offence if Jon tries stealing Daenerys from him.”

Aegon rubbed his temples. Likely he and Rhaenys would be tasked with cleaning up this mess. Hopefully Jon and Dany would act with some sense and his uncles and Quentyn wouldn’t take too much offence. It was unlikely though. Both sides of his family were ruled by passion as much as sense. His father who was by all means a calculating and thoughtful man who acted recklessly for the woman he loved. Jon’s trip impromptu trip around the world was indicative that he had inherited his father’s occasional rashness and probably a bit of his mother’s wolf’s blood. He’d have to warn Rhaenys, maybe she could convince Dany to act with caution.

They reached Sam’s chambers and Aegon bid him farewell before crossing the long hallway to his room. While part of him wanted to go tell his sister of everything they had discussed a larger part just wanted to rest and enjoy the peace while it lasted. He opened the door to his quarters and set his newly acquired sword on the couch. Stripping of his boots and shirt Aegon turned to his bed and found Rhaenys already laying there with an expectant look on her face.

“What else did you learn?” She arched a delicate eyebrow. His sister was clad in a thin shift that did little to hide her form.

He looked around the room, halfway expecting Margaery to leap out from some corner and surprise him. When he didn’t see her his eyes settled on Rhaenys.

“She’s not here.” Rhaenys stated knowing who he was looking for.

“I see.” He answered pulling off the rest of his clothes till he was as in his small clothes.

“Disappointed?” She teased. Her dusky skin glowed in the candle light. Her wavy hair was loose and fanned out around her. Brown nipples peaked through the sheer white shift.

“No” he answered but the smile at her lips said she knew he was lying. Margaery was one of Rhaenys ladies-in-waiting. A position her family no doubt thought would be enough for her to get close to the crown-prince and secure a marriage proposal. It had been his sister who had seduced her and it was his sister’s idea to share her. What started out as a conquest had blossomed into affection and Margaery was almost always in Rhaenys room when he snuck over. Her lips met his in a chaste kiss as he slid in the bed next to her.

“So what else?” She pressed. Rhaenys was always the one for gossip.

“Jon has a dragon. A big one.” Her eyes went wide.

“So that is why Sam was so sure that we’d be able to hatch those dragon eggs?”

Aegon nodded. “That’s not all. Jon can warg with his dragon. Apparently he and probably Visenya are cooler than us.”

Rhaenys giggled at his joke and tugged on a strand of his hair. “Cooler than you maybe. Never me.”

He smiled sadly. “I think father’s going to announce who we all are going to marry when Jon returns.”

“Why the change in subject?”

“It’s not. Jon’s abilities are rooted in his bloodlines. Dragon riding from his Targaryen side and warging from his Stark side. Father’s eyes lit up when he realized that. He said our blood means more now than it did before. “

She caught on to his meaning. “He’s going to marry us by bloodlines then instead of politically? Your marriage to Margaery was all but confirmed, she wouldn’t have taken such liberties with us if hadn’t been. What about the Lannisters? No doubt they were scheming to marry Myrcella to Jon when he returned.”

“Dragons are more important than marriages to lords already sworn to us. If we can hatch all ten of them then our family would be as powerful as it was before the Dance.”

Rhaenys shook her head. “Marriages bring alliances Egg. And alliances bring armies. The Tarly’s aren’t going to like it, the Lannisters won’t and the faith is going to give us shit as well. You can’t discount all of them on a whim.”

“Margaery is going to hate us.” Aegon groaned. He hoped he wasn’t the one to tell her. Truth be told he had been looking forward to marrying Margaery. She was smart, beautiful and best of all open to threesomes with Rhaenys. Plus, she brought the undying loyalty of Highgarden if she were to become queen. It was a match that made political sense and they were compatible. Now it was all going up in flames.

“Probably” Rhaenys quipped. His sister had a weird way of brushing off a potential disaster. The Tyrells were an ancient and powerful house. If Margaery’s grandmother ever learned of the things he and his sister had done to her granddaughter, they might hire faceless men to deal with them. Especially if his father was going to throw away a marriage proposal that the Tyrells had been pushing for years.

“Don’t you feel a little bit guilty?” She gave him a look that said ‘Why should I?’. “I mean you kind of started this whole thing between Margaery and us.”

“And you were such a victim. At the mercy of two highborn women crazed with lust.” She said with a sardonic grin.

“No. That’s not what I meant. Just that we should probably break this to her gently so it doesn’t blow up in our face. I don’t want to be cruel to her Rhae.”

“Aegon, sometimes I think your too good for this world. Margaery knew what she was getting into. She knew that the marriage wasn’t confirmed. We didn’t force her and besides if I wasn’t here she would have probably seduced you, got pregnant and you would have been forced to marry her. Her innocent act might still work on you. Though I don’t why but that girl has thorns just like her grandmother.”

He could only blink at his sister’s apathy. “So you’re saying she deserves this?”

“No I’m not. What I’m stating is that she isn’t innocent. She’s a player of the game just like you. Even if you don’t act like it. You’re right, dragons change the game and in a few years, are probably just as important as any army.”

“So who do you think father is going to marry us to? I’m thinking me and Visenya and you and Jon.”

Rhaenys looked at him with a deadpan expression. “Jon already left because he couldn’t marry Daenerys. I doubt Lyanna will let Father set up another marriage doomed for failure.”

“Well it’s Stark blood that lets Jon warg his dragon. I thought father wanted all of his grandchildren to have that ability” Aegon argued. It made sense to him. Split the Stark blood up so all future generations of Targaryens could have the possibility of warging their dragons.

“It’s dragon blood that allows us to ride dragons. Mixing me with Jon and you with Visenya would only dilute it. Marrying you to me and Jon to Visenya at least keeps the current concentration at the same ratio. Plus, Lyanna will want to keep sweet Visenya far away from a lech like you.” Rhaenys said good-naturedly.

Aegon agreed with her logic. It was sound reasoning and allowed him to breathe a sigh of relief. He doubted Jon would be open to sharing his sister-wife even if Aegon and Rhaenys were open to an orgy. His brother was too much of a Northman to share. If he could choose between marrying his two sisters, then it would be Rhaenys. Visenya was sweet but she was just a girl and he could never ask her to do some of the things he and Rhaenys did without feeling guilty. The wide grey eyes of his younger sister were far too innocent.

He briefly wondered if his father would let him take two wives. One for the blood and one for politics. The faith might shit themselves, and the Tyrells would grumble about the change in arrangements but if they had dragons on their side then no one could raise a serious issue.

Rhaenys had a wicked smile across her face. Her legs spread wantonly baring her center to his eyes. Aegon’s mouth watered at the sight. “Don’t want to give this up?”

He shook his head to break the trance he was falling in. “Not now Rhae.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “That’s rare. There must be something pressing you need to tell me.”

“We need to talk about Jon, Dany and Quentyn.” Aegon exasperated. Her knees were opening closing in a teasing manner while she ran her hands down her long, smooth legs. The sight was intoxicating.

“Oh Quentyn’s fucked.”

“What do you mean?” Aegon asked. Had she already spoken to Dany?

As if reading his thoughts, she answered his unspoken question. “I didn’t need to speak with Dany to tell what she’s thinking. She’s pissed at Jon for leaving and more than thrilled he’s back. I doubt Quentyn stands a chance in hell to salvage his marriage. Maybe if Jon was gone for another four years then Dany would of maybe conceded enough for Quentyn to get her pregnant but now that he’s back… Well you better hope they annul the marriage before Dany starts showing.”

Aegon sighed. Despite his sister’s bluntness her assessments were usually correct. “What do you think Quentyn will do?”

She took a second to ponder before answering. “I honestly don’t know. Arianne says Quentyn is taking Daenerys’ iciness as a challenge rather than a complete rebuttal. Maybe he’ll see she’s finally happy and press for annulment or maybe he’ll do something stupid like challenge Jon for her hand.”

“Great and if Quentyn gets himself hurt?”

“Uncle Doran or Oberyn might take offence. I don’t know what they’d do though. Jon’s our brother and their nephew by marriage. I think it depends on how thing’s play out.”

“So talk to Dany and I’ll talk to Jon when he gets here. If we can’t stop them from chasing each other then we can at least caution them on being careful.”

“Quentyn isn’t stupid Aegon. If Daenerys who doesn’t give him the time of day, starts spending all her time with Jon, then he’s going to put two and two together. Plus, nothing stays hidden in this court forever.”

Aegon remembered their theory about the proposals. “What do you think Jon will do with Visenya? I mean she was too young for anything to happen between them but he does love her and wouldn’t want to hurt her if Father makes a match of them.”

‘Maybe that will be enough or maybe it won’t. Time will tell.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Haermonys for the amazing picture of Rhaenys and Aegon. Simply stunning. 
> 
> This is a book based story. Elements of the show like (Daenerys being fire proof) will not be included. GRRM explained that was due to blood magic and a one-time thing. Plenty of Targaryens (dragon rider or otherwise) died by fire and Daenerys will not have an immunity that completely shits on the lore.  
> Finally this story takes place about two to three years after where the cannon story starts. So Jon who is 14 at the start of GOT is about 16-17 to give you an idea. Ages of the characters will be addressed later as they become relevant but here is a short list of the Targs:  
> Rhaegar: 41  
> Lyanna: 34  
> Viserys: 23-24  
> Rhaenys: ~19  
> Aegon: ~ 17  
> Jon: 16 - 17  
> Daenerys: 15 -16  
> Visenya (Jon’s little sister): 13 -14
> 
> PS: I need a beta. If any of you are open to helping a brother out then I would appreciate the assistance till the end of time.


	3. Aegon Targaryen Part 2

The Lost Emperor Chapter 3

Aegon Targaryen:

Aegon tried to keep the smile on his face genuine while he greeted the Rykkers. They weren’t the issue, Lord Rykker and his Lady wife were wonderful people who had traveled from Duskendale with their five daughters. Their daughters were pleasant as well, pretty if not a little dull. The issue was that they were one of the many noble families that he had been stuck greeting for hours. More and more of them were coming into the capital by the day and as the crown prince it was his duty to keep them entertained.

‘Damn you Jon!’ He thought ruefully. His brother’s return had inspired his father to announce a feast and a huge tourney. The size of which had not been seen in years. It didn’t matter that Jon had yet to make an appearance but word had reached them that Tyrion and Jaime were departing from Pentos. There was no mention of his brother being with them or any words about a dragon circling their ship or flying ahead. However the news of another arrival had spread like wildfire.

His father’s Hand, Tywin Lannister had sent word to the Westerlands and Riverlands to bring their family and a huge of host of their banner men’s best tourney jousters for the eventual tournament. No doubt he wanted to claim as much glory from a successful journey to Valyria for his family as possible. Other lords were following suit and steady streams of them had been coming into the capital for the past week.

The crownland houses were the first to arrive by their proximity and already houses Rykker, Cave, Slynt, Stokeworth and Thorne had found places to stay in the city. Reach riders were expected to arrive before the week’s end bringing with them the rest of Margaery’s family. Dorne was apparently sending Princess Arianne, Oberyn’s bastard daughters the Sand Snakes along with Quentyn and a dozen vassal houses. Even the North was sending a host of riders including all of Jon’s cousins and The Lord of Winterfell himself. Renly Baratheon was leading a host of eager Storm Lords who were reportedly bringing hundreds of knights and freeriders eager to compete. Jon Arryn had sent word to the Vale and reports were coming that the Kingsroads was filled for miles with Lords and smallfolk alike.

The capital was abuzz with preparation for the massive influx of travelers. The Gold Cloaks had been effectively doubled with new recruits eager for gold and purpose. The streets had been swept clean of their usual filth and the gardens planted around Kingslanding did a better job than ever of masking the smell of sewage. The many brothels in the city had been accepting steady streams of whores eager to capitalize on the influx of lusty patrons. Steady ringing from the street of steel indicated that the Smiths were working around the clock to provide good steel for the many men who wished to compete.

While Lords had already been making their way to the capital before Sam’s arrival, his appearance, Tyrion and Jaime’s eventual arrival and the tales of the crew of Sam’s shipmates were creating an air of excitement that was palpable. Singers were spinning tales about his brother having a dragon bigger than Balerion (a lie), some were saying he met the ghost of Aegon the Conqueror and brought him back to life with forgotten Valyrian blood magic, others said he had conquered Volantis or Pentos depending upon the tale. A common one was that he found a way to forge Valyrian steel and was making suits of impenetrable armor for the King’s most loyal warriors.

With the tales running through the castle and surrounding city, it became impossible to keep Jon’s dragon a secret from the rest of their family. His grandmother had nearly fainted from shock and then promptly apologized to Sam for her lecture. Everyone else had similar if more controlled reactions. Visenya practically dragged Sam to the library. In her words “We need to know everything we can! To prepare!” His father after making sure grandmother was okay, practically ran to join his youngest. Visenya’s bookish nature was truly a blessing.

The lords of the Seven Kingdoms were little better than the smallfolk and peppered the royal party with questions that they did their best to deflect. Hours were spent in the cavernous great hall hosting those who had already arrived and hours would be spent on the morrow with those who had yet to come. His father had made it a point to talk to every lord, great and small so that they could know his face and hear his council. It was advice that he had bestowed upon his sons and daughters but with Jon gone the majority of the duty had fallen to him. The others had already left the hall, even his father. Only Lyanna remained of their royal party, mostly because she couldn’t find a polite way to excuse herself from conversation with an enthusiastic Ser Allister Thorne. The man had spent many years in the Gold Cloaks and was a good friend of the family.

Not even Lyanna’s enormous Kingsguard, Ser Walder Snow dissuaded Ser Allister, who was currently regaling everyone in earshot with tales of trouble Aegon and Jon had gotten into. “Do you remember when the two princes snuck out of the keep and we had the entirety of the watch looking for them?”

Lyanna nodded patiently. It was a story Ser Allister told every time he saw them. Aegon was six at the time Jon was younger, so both barely remembered the details. Ser Allister had made it his duty to fill their gaps of memory. He continued “I couldn’t believe it when we found them. The boys were covered in filth and looked like street urchins rather than princes! And you know what, they were being picked on by some older boys. When one of them pushed Prince Jaehaerys, Prince Aegon hit him with a stick!”

There was a roar of laughter that rippled around the room. Many had probably heard some variation of the tale but Ser Allister told it best. With the arrival of so many Lords and their households the cavernous great hall was ringing with laughter. With them came their servants, retainers, wives & children, wet nurses for the young, guards and minstrels. Not even the Red Keep could fit them all and most would have to find shelter in the city but his father insisted on hosting each of the batch of new arrivals. The nobles were besides themselves with the unprecedented access to the royal family. If they weren’t bothering him with rumors about Jon then they were pestering him about all the troubles of their houses. He heard all matters of complaint. Complaints directed at neighboring lords, taxes that the crown required, to a mysterious blight that was reducing the harvest of their crops. A couple of the lord’s had the gall to offer their daughters as paramours. They figured due to his Dornish heritage, paramours were likely to happen. Aegon smiled and refused politely. He needed to bring his father and Margaery to a deal about taking two wives; adding other women would only be a complication.

“When one of the boys pushed Prince Aegon to the ground, Prince Jon jumped at the boy and nearly bit his ear off! The wolf’s blood is strong in that one.”

Aegon smiled despite hearing the story dozens of times. He and Jon were terrors around Kingslanding. Lyanna said that was one of the reasons why her and his father were so open to accepting her brother’s proposal of fostering the both of them in the North. The wide-open space of the Northern Kingdom was much better suited for rambunctious young boys than the crowded court. Uncle Ned didn’t know what he was signing up for when he and Jon integrated themselves with their cousins. Winterfell became their playground.

“You should all should have seen the Princesses’ faces when they saw the boys. Little Rhaenys had been crying her eyes out when she thought they were gone for good. Princess Daenerys marched over to the two of them and tackled both to the ground!” Ser Allister’s black eyes were filled with mirth. He was a joyous man with thin lips and a wide smile that showed a full set of teeth. Apparently old age was treating him well, Aegon had remembered signing a letter that Lyanna had composed congratulating the Ser on the birth of his granddaughter.

No doubt Ser Allister loved telling this story because of the reward he had received on finding him and his brother. The three thousand dragons that his father had promised was doubled because he and Jon were gone for nearly two days. There was a pause as Lord Cave questioned Ser Allister on how he identified the two of them.

Seeing an opening Aegon linked his arm with his good-mother and bid the lord’s a hasty farewell. “My apologies my Lord’s, I promised father I’d escort my good mother to his solar for a family meeting. I’m sure you all understand.”

They all nodded and Aegon noted there didn’t seem to be a single face that was mad at their hasty retreat. Many seemed stunned at the amount of time they had been granted to speak. Mission accomplished.  
He and Lyanna exited the great hall through a side door with their two Kingsguards falling a respectable distance behind them. The differences between Ser Walder and Ser Loras were comical. Walder was over seven feet tall, hairy with a plain, square face and kind brown eyes. If his height, width and strength were any indication, then the rumors about giant’s blood flowing through his veins might have had some truth to them. Ser Loras Tyrell was nearly as pretty as his sister, sharing her wide eyes that were doe brown indoors and golden in the sunlight. Chestnut locks framed a jawline that made woman imagine sitting on his face. He was only a few inches shorter than Aegon but looked like a child standing next to Ser Walder. Both were clad in the white enameled armor of the Kingsguard. Loras with a coat of arms displaying the golden roses of Highgarden, Ser Walder who had no house of his own displayed the direwolf of house Stark.

“Thanks Egg. I’d thought we never get out of there.” His good-mother whispered gratefully. Queen Lyanna was a representation of beauty and grace. Her long brown locks were held in loose braids. She wore a simple blue dress that brought out the grey of her storm like eyes. There wasn’t a single lock of grey in her hair and only the faintest of laughing lines graced her face.

“Yeah it appears we were the slow ones today. Leaving the heir and the queen as a sacrifice to the masses” he joked. Visenya had declined to meet with them today under the pretext of reviewing some books with Sam and Grand Maester Marwyn. His father took off early to attend a small council meeting (though Aegon knew that they already held one in the morning). His Grandmother made an appearance to the stunned admiration of the court and Daenerys left when she did. Rhaenys didn’t bother crafting an excuse and simply didn’t show up. Viserys… well no one missed Viserys.

A majority of the traffic in the castle was centered in the throne room and so the side hallways were mostly deserted. Only a few passing servants paid them quick courtesies before hurrying off to attend to their duties. Kingslanding was under the mercy of a heatwave and so all of the windows in the castle were opened. Natural light spilled through glass and archways. Even along this side passageway, portraits of members of past courts graced the walls.

“What do you think Jon’s doing right now?” Lyanna asked. Despite the hectic nature of the past week and all of the work that was required in preparation of hosting the near entirety of the nobility in the Kingdom, everyone’s thoughts were on Jon. His whereabouts were a mystery. The letter that Tyrion sent announcing their arrival had made no mention of the wayward prince. Only that the three very large Braavosi war galleys that would soon arrive at weeks’ end were their own. Tyrion’s letter was oddly specific dictating that a large pathway needed to be cleared to reach the top of Rhaeny’s hill. The dimensions he sent along with the instructions, gave hint that whatever they were carrying on their galleys was massive. Additionally, he was adamant that housing needed to be built along the base of the Dragon Pit for the large amount of workers they were bringing with them from Pentos. He gave no hint to what they were planning on building.

“Probably planning his big entrance. Do you think landing on the Sept of Baelor is too dramatic? Or arriving in the middle of the night and waking up the whole city with a dragon roar?”

The words brought a smile to Lyanna’s lips. The sight was welcome. His good-mother had been the most affected by Jon’s departure. News of his impending return had brightened her demeanor but her nervousness was palpable. Her smile didn’t last long however, her worry of Jon’s mental condition taxed her noticeably. There was a profound sadness in her grey eyes. “Do you think he’ll hate me?” She asked.

‘Hate her?’ The notion of Jon hating his mother was almost laughable. The quickest way to reveal his brother’s hidden temper was to say something ill about his mother. Jon would defend her image and honor till his dying breath. “He could never hate you. I don’t think I’ve heard him say anything bad about you.” He answered honestly.

Her shoulders slumped as if she didn’t believe his words. “You know it was me who told your Father to refuse Jon and Dany? He would have said yes if I hadn’t convinced him.”

That was something he didn’t know. He and Rhae were in Dorne when the whole situation occurred. They had both assumed it had been a decision shared by his father and Lyanna. To hear it came solely from Lyanna was surprising. She was always one to put her children’s happiness at the forefront, he and Rhae and Dany included. “Really? I thought Father probably refused it, maybe for a more favorable political match.”

Lyanna shook her head. She looked deflated from the weight of her guilt. “Your father was obsessed with prophecy and visions. He wanted to wed you to both Rhaenys and Visenya. A marriage between Jon and Daenerys he would have agreed with because we all knew they’d be a good match. It was me who steered him away from all of it.”

His mother had told him of his father’s obsession with prophecies. She thought it was due to some madness similar to the one that had possessed his grandfather or a justification that his father used to chase after Lyanna and damn the realm to war because of it. He knew it was why he was named after the conqueror and why his sisters after the conquerors two sister-wives. However, he thought that his mother’s words were due to jealousy or his father had abandoned his beliefs in prophecies because he had never spoken a word of them. To hear that Lyanna was the reason brought a whole new perspective.

Lyanna continued, the words pouring out of her like she was confessing to a Septon. “I love my son and I love all of you. I want to see each of you feel the same happiness that your Father brings me. And I don’t want any of you to make the same mistakes we did.”

“The rebellion?” He asked though he already knew what she was referring to.

Lyanna grimaced at the word. “Thousands died because of our stupidity. Because we didn’t think before acting. My brother… my father. The realm bled because we acted with our hearts rather than consider the consequences.”

“So, you wanted to prevent another war by marrying us to powerful lords?” He asked trying to fill in the gaps.

“You to Margaery. Jon to Tywin’s granddaughter. Rhaenys to Renly. Dany maybe to a Royce or the next in line if Jon Arryn’s child doesn’t make it. Viserys messed it all up when he spit on Arianne and called her a dirty dornishmen.”

His uncle had caused a shit storm. Months of careful planning by both parties, undone in a single night. All because Arianne was a late bloomer who was flat chested and plump on their first meeting. He hadn’t insulted her in private either, doing it in full view of the court after Arianne, her father Prince Doran and the large procession of Dornish nobility had traveled to the capital. The insult had done serious damage and if Viserys had tried that stunt in Dorne he likely wouldn’t have made it out alive. If only he had some patience, Aegon had seen the beauty that Arianne had become. She had definitely bloomed.

“After Elia being set aside and Viserys’ behavior we were lucky that Oberyn wasn’t there to run Viserys through. “ Viserys actions had earned him an unofficial banishment from Dorne. If he were to suddenly drop dead on the morrow, a thousand Dornish would toast the gods for their wisdom.

“Dany’s and Quentyn’s marriage was a consolation.” He had suspected that for some time. No doubt it was why Dany agreed to the betrothal in the first place. While she had no affection for her husband, her brother’s actions put her in a difficult positon to refuse. Daenerys was dutiful and loyal to her family. Sacrificing her own happiness for the sake of politics.

Lyanna nodded. “My father always said the best alliances were made through marriage. Marrying you all to the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms made sense. There couldn’t be a rebellion if each side would be Kinslayers.”

“Why are you so convinced there is another war coming? The usurper is dead somewhere beyond the wall, Stannis lies in the ground, Renly loves Rhaenys like a sister, Dorne Is loyal, Uncle Ned is in Winterfell and Tywin and Tarly are on the small council. Jon sailed to Valyria with three Lannisters and we have Loras on the Kingsguard. Everyone that matters is tied to us. Even the Greyjoy heir is in Winterfell.”

“I’ve been here long enough to know that peace for one year or even ten doesn’t mean war won’t break out the next. How long did it take the Greyjoy’s to rebel? They were one Kingdom and it took five others to beat them. “

“We didn’t just beat them. We crushed them.” He said proudly. The campaign against the Greyjoy’s was one his favorites to study. A mix of naval battles, storming beaches, and fights in city streets. Castles were laid a siege and his father led the realm as a warrior and a king.

Lyanna looked at him as if he were simple. “And what if other Lord’s ignored the call? What if they joined them? What if it was Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell who rebelled? Sometimes you Targaryens forget that you aren’t dragons, you can’t just do whatever you want anymore.”

The sense of her logic and the bite of her words stung. Feeling a little defensive he replied “Well Jon has a dragon.”

“He has one dragon, Egg and its nowhere near as big as Balerion or Vhagar. Dorne was able to bring down Myraxes and she was huge. We have to keep other Lord’s interest in mind. We aren’t all powerful.”

“So what about the marriage plans that father is cooking up? I know he intends to marry brother to sister like our family has done in the past. All because of Jon bringing dragons back.”

She paused considering his words. “We spoke long about that and he is convinced that consolidating Targaryen blood is the best way forward. You to Rhaenys and when we know Jon’s condition, him to Visenya.”

“Rhae was right.” Aegon said with a smile.

“She usually is” Lyanna agreed.

“What about Daenerys? Or the other Lords? You just said they weren’t happy.”

She sighed. “Rhaegar knows the situation between Dany and Quentyn is… tense. Jon’s return certainly isn’t going to help the situation. But we can’t be the ones to push an annulment, it has to come from Quentyn. We’ve already done so much to anger Dorne, so this has to be handled carefully. When they are separated, Daenerys has the freedom to do what she wants.”

“And if she wants Jon? Won’t a betrothal to Visenya complicate things even more? Even if he’s perfectly sane I can’t imagine either of them giving up on each other entirely.”

“Your father is insistent about these betrothals. He thinks marrying Jon and Visenya is the best way to ensure that Jon’s warging ability is passed down to our grandchildren. Besides we can’t ask for an annulment and marry Jon and Daenerys right after. It would be another insult to Dorne that we have to avoid.”

The politics behind the decision made sense but it didn’t sit easy with him. Jon had left because of his parent’s refusal to allow him to marry Dany. Throwing additional obstacles in the way of their relationship didn’t sound like a great idea to him. “So Jon’s marriage to Visenya is what? To provide the illusion that Jon’s arrival wasn’t the cause of the annulment? Based on a best guess to pass down the gifts of his blood? Do you think Visenya wants to come between the two of them?”

“If Jon is still the person that we know then he won’t do anything to hurt his sister. They might not have any feelings for each other now but she was young when he left. He might grow to care for her as much or more than he does for Daenerys. And Visenya idolizes her brother, she knows Jon is a good man and won’t do anything to harm her. Northern blood flows through his veins just as much as Targaryen, he won’t dishonor her.”

“Why are we so concerned about appeasing Dorne? They won’t rebel. Me and Rhae will be the future King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Martell blood will forever be in the ruling bloodline when we ascend to the throne.” Risking everything over slights and failed marriages didn’t sound like Uncle Doran. While Uncle Oberyn was more impulsive, he couldn’t imagine his uncle doing anything to jeopardize their alliance.

“Not everything comes down to war, Egg. They could do anything, from hastening the date of your coronation to refusing to pay their taxes. The point is we don’t want to give them a reason to retaliate.”

He nodded. Sometimes it was hard to fathom that the Game played out in whispers and in the shadows as much or even more than on the battlefield. “And what’s our plan for the other Lords?”

“That’s the biggest issue. Your father is set on marrying you all by blood. Tywin has been bitter since Cersei was denied, angry that we placed Margaery ahead of Myrcella and will likely be livid once Jon is off the table. The Tyrell’s won’t be much happier with the liberties you and your sister took with their daughter.” She gave him a pointed stare with her last comment.

He stared at her in shock. “You know about that?”

She hit his arm, hard. “Of course! You two aren’t as clever or subtle as you think.”

“Does Father know too?” He asked in a shaky voice. That was a topic that he wanted to address with his father when he could get him nice and drunk.

“No. I haven’t told him because I’m disappointed in you both! What were you thinking?” She exclaimed. Walder and Loras were far enough away that he wasn’t sure if they could over hear them but by the stare Loras gave him when he looked over his shoulder, Aegon was sure one of them was trying to ease drop.

Rhaenys always said he was a smart ass who didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. That’s probably the reason why he whispered the words before he could think them through “Isn’t that a bit hypocritical? Father has both you and mother.”

If looks could kill then Aegon would have been ashes on the Steps of the Great Sept. “Did you not learn anything from your history lessons with the Maester? I just told you that your supposed to learn from your father’s mistakes not repeat them! The jewel of Highgarden! Couldn’t you have picked a servant girl or one of the daughter’s whose fathers were offering them as paramours or even better you and Rhae could have continued sneaking out to Chataya’s like you’ve always done!” She kept her voice down but her whisper was harsh.

His eyes widened. How could she have known? They had been so careful. Passageways, disguises, and extra pay for discretion. “How do you know everything?”

“Rhaegar told me about the passageways leading to that brothel. Jon might be the only son I pushed out of me but you’re my boy too Egg. A mother keeps tabs on her son, especially if he has a corrupting older sister.”

He held up his hands in an attempt to placate her. “In my defense, I planned to marry Margaery and Rhae.”

Lyanna looked at him in disbelief. “Egg. We are planning on not one but two incestual marriages, asking for a marriage that was done in the Sept of Baelor by the High Septon himself to be annulled and you want to throw polygamy on top of it all?”

“Well when you put it that way…”

“Have you even asked Margaery?” He shook his head. In truth he had been avoiding her until he could sort the marriage situation out.

Lyanna sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if you three are punishment for all the headaches I brought my father. Only Visenya seems to have some sense.”

She looked him in the eye. “The Tyrells are ancient and proud. Especially Lady Olenna. They want Margaery to be ‘The’ Queen of the seven Kingdoms.” She emphasized the singular meaning with her hands. “Not just one of them. They’ll want assurances her children will ascend the throne before Rhaenys’ if they even agree to the plan in the first place. Could you agree to that?”

He struggled to formulate a reply. He hadn’t thought of that. Rhaenys wouldn’t agree, their children would be more blood of the dragon than any he had with Margaery. Plus, his sister was a crown princess by birth, passing by her children in the line of succession would be an unthinkable insult.

Lyanna saw the understanding blossom in his eyes. “One would grow to hate you either way Egg. Maybe even each other. I won’t tell your father until you speak to him but think about the consequences before you do.”

The relationship between his mother and father came to his mind. The two of them hadn’t spoken in years, not even in letters and he and Rhae knew to never bring up his father in conversation when they were in their mother’s presence. For all of the animosity between his two parents neither his mother or Lyanna so much as whispered an unkind word about the other. They were both amiable, exchanged occasional letters and asked how the other was doing. “My mother doesn’t hate you” he offered.

She smiled sadly. “Elia is a wonderful woman. She didn’t deserve the disrespect done by your Father and I’s actions. Most women would hold a grudge and rightfully so.”

It was hard to fathom Rhaenys and Margaery ever hating each other. The two of them had a very close relationship and were getting together long before Rhae invited him. Perhaps children changed things. He knew mothers could be fiercely, even irrationally protective of their children. Any slight or rivalry between their children could conceivably drive a wedge between his two lovers.

They split up not long after. Queen Lyanna went to check on his father and younger sister. Aegon headed toward the training yard in order to distract himself. Their Kingsguard escort who stilled followed at a respectable distance split to follow each. Ser Walder held open a door for the Queen as she climbed a stair case to the library. Ser Loras followed him.

Loras was the newest addition of the Kingsguard, filling the long vacant position of Ser Gerold Hightower who died some months after the Greyjoy rebellion. While Ser Loras certainly looked the part of a Knight: pretty as a maid with a slender yet strong form, Aegon knew that his appointment to such a prestigious position was a move made out of politics rather than due to Loras’ accomplishments.

The Tyrells included Loras, a third son as a packaged deal for what they assumed was an eventual betrothal for Margaery. While his father and Tywin (for reasons of his own) were able to deflect motions for an immediate betrothal, appointing Loras to the Kingsguard was one of the concessions they made to stave them off. Seeking a queenship for their daughter and getting a Kingsguard for their son, no one could claim the Tyrells weren’t ambitious.

He and Loras had a long-standing rivalry that only grew fiercer with his appointment. Being of the same age they were frequently matched against each other in tournaments. Loras already had a reputation of being an excellent tourney knight and whenever they were matched up against each other in the jousts or melees it was a tossup of who would emerge victorious. It was also a suspicion of his that Loras knew the details of his relationship with Margaery and didn’t approve.

“Care for a spar Ser Loras?” A few hours beating Loras into submission would be enough to distract him from his thoughts of Margaery. He knew that stalling wouldn’t solve the problem. Eventually he would have to talk to her and Rhae and then his father. Currently though, he had no idea what he was going to say.

Loras gave him a smirk, his golden eyes were blazing from the promise of a challenge. “I look forward to seeing you on your back my prince.”

Aegon couldn’t help but glare at the innuendo. Loras pretended to be the picture of chivalry but he was used to doing whatever it took to win. Making sly remarks with double meanings was in his usual playbook. He and Loras had been friends before he and Jon left for Winterfell but the constant competition between them paired with his relationship with Margaery had added a layer of animosity between them. While Aegon didn’t hate Loras and didn’t think Loras hated him either, if they didn’t have swords in their hands then Aegon didn’t care for his company.

They were making their way to the training yard when Rhaenys appeared before them. She was a vision of beauty and seduction. His sister had spent the majority of her years in Dorne and Kingslanding. Her wardrobe reflected the Dornish influence and with a ten-year summer, the hottest on record most of the ladies of the court were slowly adapting to his sister’s trend.

Her dress flowed to her ankles, while a slit down the side revealed high strapped sandals with a slight raised heel. A belt of cloth built into the dress wrapped tightly around her midsection so that the curve of her hip was highlighted. There was no neckline to the dress, instead it was held up by a seamless section of cloth that covered her breast and looped behind her neck. Her shoulders and arms were bare save for bands of gold that graced her wrists. A generous display of cleavage greeted his eyes as the two lengths cloth covering her breast did not meet until above her belly button. Dark nipples poked through the muted red fabric. With each step she took the musculature of slender thighs teased his gaze. Her ears were adorned by long ear rings with embedded amethyst gems, the same color as her eyes. Her hair was swept back into a gentle bun so that a few dark strands danced around her ears.

A confident gaze met his and she let out a sly smile as he gaped at her appearance. “Excuse me Ser Loras. I need to borrow my brother.” Loras smiled warmly at Rhaenys and walked in the direction hence they came. Whatever rivalry existed between him and Loras never affected Loras’ opinion of Rhae. Men clamored for her attention and even if Loras wasn’t interested with what was between her legs, he found her company agreeable all the same.

His elder sister didn’t bother greeting him instead she turned and walked in a direction that would lead them to the edges of the castle. He nearly tripped as her bare back came into view. She shot him a knowing smile over her shoulder. Her backside wiggled invitingly and he resisted the urge to lunge at her. Instead he followed her dutifully.

He saw the expression on her face as he pulled up next to her. She was planning something. “What are you up to Rhae?” He asked warily. Aegon had learned long ago that his sister’s schemes were unorthodox. She had all the confidence of a crown princess, the herald beauty of a daughter of the blood and the cunning of her Uncle Doran. That combination paired with her stubborn willfulness made for unusual ways to achieve what she wanted.

Rhaenys wielded her charm and beauty like a sword. Most likely taught from all her years in Dorne with their cousins, Princess Arianne and the Sand Snakes, their Uncle Oberyn’s bastard daughters. She was impulsive though and had trouble seeing the veracity in others arguments. It was why her and Jon had so much trouble getting a long when they were growing up. The two of them had such different, clashing personalities that they rarely could come to an agreement. Paired with the complicated history of their family it was no wonder they had never grown as close to each other as he did with both of them. Perhaps age and time apart would be enough for them to finally get along. He would hate for his sister-wife to get on the wrong side of a dragon rider.

“Why are you avoiding Margaery?” Her voice was sweet. That put him even more on edge. Rhaenys always liked to lure him into a false sense of security before she did something to turn his world upside down.

“Rhae, you know why I am. We are going to have to end things with her and I don’t know a good way to do that” He admitted in a huff. To his frustration his sister only smirked in response. She clearly wasn’t sharing in his inner turmoil.

“End things? Why would we do that?”

Rhae might not of had the traditional Valyrian features of their forefathers but she was well compensated with the infamous Targaryen stubbornness. It was on full display now. “I spoke to Lyanna. She knows everything. Says things will only end badly.”

His sister looked ready to march off and confront the queen. If there was a hint of Lyanna’s influence in any decision, then Rhaenys was likely to argue the exact opposite. Some would say Rhae was fire and Lyanna was ice but Aegon thought the two of them were too alike to get along. He was like his father, content to let his love take the reins more often than not but willing and likely to take control if necessary. Both Lyanna and Rhaenys were strong outspoken women and the reality of Lyanna’s role in their mother and father’s anemic relationship poisoned Rhaenys opinion of her since once she was old enough to understand it all. “So, she told you to end things?” her tone was accusing.

He shook his head. “No Rhae, Lyanna didn’t tell me to do anything other than to be careful. I’m the one whose ending things before they get out of hand.”

She let out a breath that looked like an attempt to calm herself. “So, you’re the stupid one. I should have figured. Nothing is going to ‘get out of hand’” She quoted the last words with her fingers.

Rhae had set a quick pace through the halls. Her long legs made the top of her head come to his chin. They were somewhere outside the main artery of traffic of the keep. A hallway on the northern edge of the castle, mostly used by servants though it was currently deserted. Rhae shoved him against the wall and silenced any protest with a kiss.

The taste of her lips was just as intoxicating as the sight of her and his words died before they could be voiced as he returned the kiss. Their tongues dueled and her body melded with his own. His gripped her hips and he ground his sudden hardness into her thigh that had slipped between his legs.

Her hands ran through his hair, nails scratching his scalp delicately. A slender finger pressed against his lips when they broke apart. She shushed him with a whisper. “You talk too much.” Her hands worked quickly removing the tie around her hips and using it to blindfold him. “You trust me?” He nodded.

This time they moved in a light jog. The thin material of his blindfold allowed him to see shapes but it was her guiding hand that prevented him from running into a wall. They turned down another hallway and Rhaenys knocked on a wall in front of them. The stone slid aside with hardly a sound and Aegon’s vision went completely dark as they slid inside.

Rhaenys apparently could still see as she led him without hesitation to the far side of the room and pressed him against the wall. They hadn’t walked far, maybe three paces so the room or nook must have been tiny. Her lips were on his again. This kiss was demanding as if she was affirming to him and herself that she was in control. Her teeth dragged against his bottom lip and he responded by nibbling on her own. When he tried running his hands down her sides, she gripped his wrists and pulled them over his head. Often their sex was as much about dominance as it was for release.

When they were children, Rhaenys liked to lord over he and Jon with her status as an older sister. For a time, her age advantage meant she was stronger and she used it to her advantage in their rough play. That was until his time spent in Winterfell training with sword. When his voice deepened and he grew taller and muscle filled out a lanky form Rhaenys no longer had the strength advantage.

Rhaenys found another way to dominate him when they were in Dorne. He had been a virgin and inexperienced around women but immensely curious. With the status of a crown prince and his looks many were eager to fulfill his curiosity. His sister drove away both serving girls and discrete noblewomen alike. One night Aegon snuck into her quarters to confront her about her behavior. Rhae had reduced a serving girl to tears. The girl had been boasting to her group of friends about the blush she brought to his cheeks from a suggestive comment she made. Rhae had come upon her like a storm and looked like she would have throttled the girl if there weren’t so many witnesses.

His sister was unrepentant, even when he yelled at her. When he said he was going to find the girl to apologize, Rhaenys shoved him to her bed and showed him what he was missing. Even their first time had been intense and full of passion. She taught him how to please her, where to grip with a firm hand and where to place delicate kisses. They made love with her on top of him. She kissed his lips when he went too quickly and then rode him to completion when he recovered. Rhae was his first and he burned with jealousy when she told him he wasn’t hers. From then on Rhae was always there when he had another lover, always the one who would invite the other woman to their bed.

There was a click as his hands were shackled to the wall. Her hands moved so deftly that he barely had time to react. Two chains rattled as he tested his reach. The manacles only allowed him to move a few inches. “What are you up to Rhae?” he asked again, surprised at the development.

They had done many, many things in their play. Rhae loved the risk of someone catching them and she often implored him to take her in places, where anyone was likely to walk by and stumble upon them. They had visited Chatya’s brothel more times than he could remember. The secret passageway of an ancient, honor-bound Hand had allowed them to maintain anonymity. Servant girls who could be trusted and whores who were as discrete as they were skilled were their favorites. Their liaisons would draw the condemnation of the High Septon, even if they weren’t brother and sister.

Bringing other women to their bed had been Rhaenys idea. Aegon had told her that she was enough for him. Rhae wouldn’t have it, she loved to dominate other women and bringing them into their bed for him to have his way with them was something that pleased her immensely. Conquering the heiress of Highgarden had been the ultimate prize. Every night she could slip away, Rhae would regale him with her progress. She would whisper in his ears how she would soon have Margaery on her knees before them waiting for instruction. How they would train the innocent heiress to be their personal whore. Public sex and sharing other women had become their routine. Chaining him up was new territory and new made him nervous.

“Quiet Egg. Or does big sister have to gag you as well?”

She kissed his neck and he turned his head in supplication. A gasp escaped him his, as her teeth nibbled on the skin of his neck before brushing over the same spot with her tongue. A groan of delight escaped her at his response. Rhae loved when he came undone beneath her. His neck was sensitive and she exploited the knowledge. Her nails racked down his chest and his tunic was ripped open a second later.

A laugh left his throat as she played with his nipples. “Rhae please” She knew he was ticklish there.

“I like when you beg me.” He voice was throaty with arousal. She had shifted into a huntress. He had woken the dragon.

His pants fell to the ground and then his small clothes followed. Rhae quickly flung off his boots and he heard them bang somewhere in the distance. His cock was as hard and stiff as stone. His sack pulled tight to his body. The lack of sight heightened the sensation of Rhae’s soft hands. Instead of gripping his manhood like he wanted, she rubbed his thighs and kissed where his hips met his groin. His stomach rippled at the sensation.

“Rhae” he whispered urgently. Her hand left his thigh and gripped his sack gently. His hips jumped at the touch. He hissed as her tongue swiped at the tip of his length, swallowing the drops of precum that gathered. There was a sudden pause in her ministrations, her hands left his body before her mouth plunged down to take half of him in one go. The moan that would have escaped his lips was swallowed by a second set pressed against his own. His hips bucked involuntarily at the realization that there were two sets of hands on his body. One was rubbing his chest and the other gripped his buttocks to pull him forward. His cock throbbed as the head pressed against the back of the woman’s mouth.

“I’m the best sister ever. Aren’t I?” The lips that were on his whispered. Rhaenys kissed across his cheek to tease his ear between her teeth.

Aegon tried and failed to form intelligible words and let out a simple grunt of agreement instead. The mystery woman worked him furiously, sucking around his tip before bobbing her head so that he brushed against the entrance of her throat repeatedly. One hand gripped what she couldn’t fit in her mouth and the other a cheek of his buttocks to guide his shallow thrusts. Her nails left small indentations in his skin.

“Now, now my little rose we don’t want him to finish too quickly.” He nearly came undone at Rhae’s words. Margaery!

Again, his sister’s kiss swallowed his protest or thanks, he wasn’t sure what would of left his lips. The now revealed Margaery decreased the intensity of her ministrations. Instead of doing her best to swallow him whole, she placed kisses along his length before taking him back into her mouth and sucked gently.

“Now are you going to behave or am I going to have to gag you?” Rhae asked with an edge to her voice. Her hands traced down his spine.

“Yes!” Aegon gasped. Margaery had abandoned his length to kiss his sack while her hand gripped him firmly.

Rhae removed his blindfold at the answer. The tiny room they were in was lit by a few candles whose light was too dim for him to see behind the veil. A medium sized bed, big enough for two or three if you squeezed, dominated most of the room’s space. Its sheet looked soft and clean. There was another set of manacles directly across from him and currently unoccupied. The room was all stone from the floor to the ceiling and there was no visible doorway.

What dominated his attention was the beauty on her knees before him. She had a pillow under her to save them from the stone floor. Light cast from the candles made her skin appear golden. Wide doe brown eyes stared up at him, a picture of innocence if she wasn’t as naked as her nameday with her mouth teasing the tip of his cock.

Her flowing brown waves of hair hid her small breasts from view. From memory he knew her nipples were pink, tiny until they became erect and very sensitive. She had wide hips and her body was slender and softer than Rhaenys’. Molded from her restless personality. She was always going out for a ride, hawking or sailing on the Blackwater.

Aegon felt affection blossom in his chest at the sight of her. Despite Lyanna’s advice ringing in his head, he couldn’t help but smile. “Hey you.”

She popped him out of her mouth to answer. “Hey yourself.” Her smile was teasing, a gentle upturn of her full lips. It set him a boil.

Rhaenys ran her hands through Margaery’s hair, smiling at the effect the two of them had on each other. “So Egg, why don’t you explain to our little rose why you were avoiding her?”

He frowned at Rhaenys. She wanted him to explain now? When his hands were shackled and the only stitch of clothing he wore was the wide open tunic? Now when he was at the complete mercy of the two? He tried to find an elegant way to explain himself. “Well…uh, you see I wasn’t real-“

Rhaenys cut him off. “My brother thinks he’s going to have to give you up because our father intends to wed us.”

Margaery’s reaction didn’t have any of the tears or anger that he expected. There was no immediate call for her Kingsguard brother to fight for her honor nor a threat to call her grandmother’s seven-foot-tall guardsmen to cut him in half, war be damned. Instead the smile that graced her face wiped away any of the false innocence that clung to her persona. It was eerily similar to his sister’s smile. Obviously they had discussed the matter without him. “Didn’t your father take two wives?” Margaery asked sweetly. The question was rhetorical. Everyone knew the answer.

“Yes and the realm bled for it.” He answered. Any seriousness laid by his answer was dispelled as he bucked his hips in response to Margaery stroking his cock. Her grip was slick from her saliva and she glided up and down his length with a lazy tempo.

“So you think someone’s going to start a war if we marry?” Her grin was wide, flashing a perfect set of white teeth.

“Well the faith-” he started.

“The faith will have to deal with it.” Rhaenys said fiercely. She had peeled off her dress to stand nearly naked. Only her high strapped sandals were on. The slight heel of the shoes accentuated the curve of her legs. Her skin glowed from the candle light. She let loose the bun that held her hair and waves as black as night tumbled down her back to her buttocks. Her breasts were high, with a round fullness and capped by small brown nipples. They were dark and erect with arousal. His sister had a moderate interest in sword play, she could wield a dagger and spear as well as any man but naked and standing over the kneeling form of Margaery she looked like a warrior princess.

He tried appealed to Margaery, though his arguments had little conviction. “But your family follows the seven and we are already doing so much that ignores the teachings of the faith.”

“Doesn’t your brother have a dragon?” Margaery asked. Rhaenys had already let him know that she confirmed some of the rumors around Jon for her.

“Yes he does.” Aegon answered slowly. Why did everyone think having a dragon was the answer to everything.

“You and your brother get along correct?” Both of her hands were gripping him now.

“Yes I love my brother.”

“And he would defend your decision against any who protest two wives?”

“I believe so.”

“And he’s planning to hatch more dragons? So you’ll have a dragon of your own soon?”

That was being presumptuous. Just because he had dragon’s blood didn’t mean he was guaranteed to be a rider. Plenty of his ancestors were of the blood and didn’t bond to dragons even when they were in an abundance. Viserys II never rode a dragon even though his four brothers, mother and father were all riders. “Hopefully”

Her smile was as bright as the golden rose that was the sigil of her house. “So I don’t see the issue.”

“It’s not that simple. The faith will be angry regardless if we have dragons and your family won’t be happy with you being one of two queens. They’ll want any children we have to take precedence over any I have with Rhae.”

“We are Targaryens Egg. Any children you have with either of us will probably end up marrying each other or Jon’s or Dany’s. Case of succession solved.” Rhae said impatiently. Her restlessness with their conversation was revealed when she gently pushed the back of Margaery’s head. The heiress got the message and slid him back inside her mouth.

Rhae grinned at him evilly as his eyes rolled back in their sockets from the sensation. “She’s a good girl isn’t she?”

Margaery seemed invigorated by the praise and resumed sucking him with the same intensity that she started with. Her lips paused at the halfway point of his cock but a firm push from Rhaenys forced another few inches into her throat.

He grunted at his sister’s antics. She loved to dominate the women they took together and Margaery Tyrell was the sweetest prize of them all. The fact that she was not only highborn but the daughter of a Lord Paramount seemed to set his sister aflame. Sweet, beautiful, clever Margaery was more than happy to please.

With her at the center of both he and his sister’s attention, the little rose put on a show. Her head bobbed in quick succession and she twisted around him with hand an lips working in unison. The room was filled with the sound of her slurps.

Right before he could fall over into an abyss of pleasure, Rhaenys tugged on the heiress’ hair, pulling her away. His eyes flew open. He didn’t even notice closing them “What, Why?” He stuttered.

“Do you want her? Do you want me as your sister wife?” His sister’s eyes were wild with lust. She hadn’t go of Margaery’s hair. Instead her fist was tangled in it as if she was jealously holding a toy away from him. There was a light flush on her cheeks and the warmth in the room from their body heat left a thin layer of sweat on her skin.

“Yes Rhae please. I want you both.” He begged shamelessly. Something about the shackles made him feel weaker and vulnerable. If was unchained, then he would of thrown his sister to the bed and made her beg for it.

Rhaenys was relentless with her torment. “You want us both to have your babies? To have little boys with bossy sisters that put them in their place?”

He nodded eagerly. The thought of getting both of them with child was a secret fantasy of his. Rhae had picked up on it with a word.

“You want two wives to warm your bed every night? To be the envy of all the lords across the realm?” Margaery’s voice was a higher pitch than Rhae’s. So feminine that her words sounded like a song.

“Yes!” He all but yelled. His hands pulled at the restraints without effect.

“So you’ll sit down with father and tell him that you’ll be having both of us. Just like the conqueror.”

Rhae didn’t wait for his answer. Her words were a command not a question. She unhooked the chain connecting the manacles and shoved him onto the bed. Before he could collect himself, Margaery jumped on top of him. Their lips locked in a passionate kiss. No protest could leave his lips as Rhae once again shackled him. This time to the pillar of the bedpost.

Margaery rolled her hips as his cock brushed against her unguarded center. They both hissed as they came to uncharted territory. Completely unprecedented for her and for him it was the one thing the two of them couldn’t do until their betrothal was secure. If the decision was solely up to each other than he would of probably but a child in her belly by now. Rhaenys was their guide and chaperone.

His soon to be sister-wife came up behind his lover and pulled her back so they no longer brushed against each other. He nearly whined at the loss of contact.

Rhaenys smirked down at him. Her hand gripped Margaery’s tiny breast, fingers tweaking a nipple. The other traveled down the heiresses’ flat stomach and slid through her soft brown curls. Margaery cried out as Rhaenys’ fingers rubbed her clit. Her head tilted to one side in pleasure and Rhaenys capitalized kissing at junction of her neck and shoulder. His sisters stared at him with laughing purple eyes.

Margaery’s cries grew louder as Rhaenys brought her close to completion. Aegon grew even harder at the sight of them. A unified gasp left both his and Margaery’s mouths as Rhaenys suddenly pulled Margaery upwards and slid the heiress onto his cock.

He jerked in shock at the sudden heat enveloped him. She was tight and wet as a river; the evidence of her arousal clung to his thighs. She pressed against him and drove his hips into the bed. He could only buck up a few inches in answer.

Rhaenys set the pace, holding Margaery upright while her fingers worked her clit. Margaery rode him delicately, grinding onto his cock instead of driving her hips up and down like he wanted. It took less than a minute for her to succumb to his sister’s manipulations. The clench and spasm of her orgasm would have sent him overboard if Rhaenys didn’t pull her off of him.

His sister helped the heiress ride out her pleasure. Her fingers dipped inside of their lover with a wet squelch. Margaery shudder and rolled her hips against his sister’s palm. Their lips met in a passionate kiss and Rhaenys held the heiresses chin as she claimed her lips. It was a motion that was both possessive and tender.

When the shudders that rolled through Margaery’s body like waves became mere echoes, Rhaenys laid Margaery down next to him. The heiress curled next to his form, meeting his lips with a sweet kiss that did little to appease his arousal. When they broke away Rhaenys’ fingers were at his mouth coated with Margaery’s essence. He sucked them eagerly.

Before he could beg Rhaenys for relief, she slid down his length with a single harsh plunge. Her ass met his hips with a slap of flesh. He could do little else than admire her bouncing breasts as she rode him hard enough to drive his hips into the bed.

Rhaenys eyes had a fire in them. She placed her hands on his chest and slapped her ass down with a tempo and rhythm meant to make him spill. This was a show of possession. Meant to display that he was hers, no matter their shared feelings for the heiress. They were dragons, meant for each other the day he was born.

Rhae sucked and bit at his neck, hard enough that he knew it would leave a mark. “Cum for me Egg. Cum in your big sister.”

He gasped at her words and is if on command he came undone. It felt like his life force was draining out of him with each rope of cum. Her cunt gripped him eagerly and Rhae cried out as she watched the conformation of her power over him. His vision went black for a long moment. When he finally came to, Rhae was kissed his jaw, his nose and then finally his lips. It was a tender kiss, full of love. So different than the violence of their lovemaking but just as intense.

Rhae giggled at the expression on his face. “Do you think you could get use to this?” Her hair acted as veil so that the world narrowed to just the two of them.

His smile was easy and his eyes dropped in exhaustion “I think so.”

Rhae lifted off him and unshackled his wrist. She moved to lay between him and Margaery. “Margaery, I have a snack for you.”

As Margaery moved to dive her head between Rhae’s legs, all Aegon could think was “I am a lucky man.”

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Rhaenys:

 


	4. Visenya The Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lannisters arrive with tales and artifacts from Old Valyria and Visenya Targaryen dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks GOT88 for editing this.

Someone asked if I could post an image of what I imagine Visenya looks like. I am no artist but I did find an actress who embodies the youth and innocence that I imagine of the character. Thank you Haermonys for the edits on the eyes and hair!

Visenya The Dreamer

Visenya edged her horse to go faster in order to keep up with the speedy form of her aunt. Her chestnut brown filly lowered her head in determination and their pace quickened. Still the several yards lead her aunt had gathered did not disappear easily. Daenerys rode her silver, a pure white mare with a flowing mane, like a Dothraki princess. She was hallway out the saddle, squatting above her horse’s back with her knees tucked under her chest for speed. Visenya was a mirror of her position, both of their long braids of silver hair flapped in the wind.

They wore riding leathers, high boots with short, sleeveless tunics. Padded helms were their only protection. Though at full gallop, the helms would do little in the face of a fall. A long cloud of dust trailed behind them as they raced along the road to the Lion Gate. Somewhere in or behind the dust cloud was their guard including Ser Loras and Ser Arys Oakheart, the latter was most likely trying to keep pace, a fruitless effort. Despite being the newest Kingsguard member, Ser Loras had learned that only her mother could challenge the two of them. He was most likely keeping his sister company. Margaery did not want to participate in the long-standing competition between the two Targaryen princesses.

Visenya saw Daenerys take a quick look over her shoulders. Lilac eyes met her grey ones and Daenerys full lips upturned into a half smile. Visenya matched the smile with a grin of her own. ‘It’s on!’

They barreled down the wide road, even as the traffic became denser with new arrivals to the capital. The smallfolk could see the dust trail they created well in advance and wisely moved to the sides. Shouts of greeting graced them as they raced by. “The Princesses!” “Good day to you your graces!” “Long live the dragons!” Their calls warmed her heart but if she stopped to wave like she normally would, then that would mean conceding to Dany. And she didn’t intend on losing today.

The several yards gap between them had been cut. Now the head of her Gilly pulled level with silver’s rump. Silver was taller with longer, faster strides that made the horse a better sprinter of the two. They had been racing flat-out for over a mile though and Silver was beginning to slow from fatigue. This was where Gilly’s superior stamina had edged out the last win for Visenya. Daenerys had learned from her mistakes though, and silver had enough energy for the last fifty yards of their sprint.

Nearly neck and neck, Visenya saw Daenerys tense in her peripheral. Ahead of them a cart was laying in the center of the road, one of its wheel several feet away. The owner of the cart, a small man with dirt brown hair was struggling to stand it upright. When he saw their rapid advance, his eyes went wide, his face paled and he abandoned the cart as he ran to the side of the road.

The cart was at least six feet wide and dominated most of the road. On either side, there were pools of mud littered with various items travelers had discarded. To go through them meant risking tripping your horse. Daenerys didn’t slow, her butt lifted higher, through her riding leathers Visenya could see her thighs tense like a spring.

Visenya didn’t slow either. She lifted in the saddle, tensing her back. Her brow narrowed in concentration. A moment later the four of them were airborne. A feeling of weightlessness briefly enveloped her. She wondered if this was how Jon felt riding Syraxes. Hopefully someday she would find out for herself.

The landing was rougher than she intended. Her weight shifted to the side and she had to yank on the reins and dig her feet into the stirrups to avoid falling. Gilly’s pace slowed from the shift in her center of gravity, though not by much.

Daenerys landed perfectly, barely moving as Silver touched the ground. Silver darted passed them and crossed the oak tree that marked the finish line. Gilly followed a second later and slowed to a trot to join the prancing Silver under the shade of the oak. The heat from the summer sun was oppressive. Small folk had taken to walking around in the least amount of clothes as possible with young children going entirely naked.

Her aunt dismounted silver gracefully and Visenya followed. “You almost had me Senya. If it wasn’t for that cart you would have won.”

“Ah I knew you paid that guy to leave cart in the road. I mean how convenient for you.” She teased. Her and Daenerys went on rides once a week and half of those rides ended in races back to the city. Daenerys was only two years and some months older than her, at six and ten. Though Daenerys was technically her aunt, they were as close as sisters and she considered Dany her closes friend. Rhae had spent most of her life in Dorne and Aegon had spent most of his life in Winterfell and then later Sunspear. Daenerys was born on Dragonstone but raised in Kings Landing beside her. Because they were so close in age and the only girls with silver hair many mistook them for twins. Though Dany was taller with a woman’s body and far more beautiful.

“Ha, I think you mistake me for Rhaenys! I beat you fair and square.” Daenerys exclaimed in mock admonishment. Visenya giggled, that was something Rhaenys might do. Daenerys reached into the small pack she kept in her saddle and took a long draught of water. She handed Visenya the sack, who drank from it gratefully and then used the remaining water to cool Gilly’s ears.

A brief pang of guilt went through her at pushing the horses so hard in this heat. Daenerys noticed “Don’t. You know they love racing as much as us.”

That was true. Their horses were born from the same mare but of the seed from different stallions. Of all the horses in the stables these two stuck closes together. Both were of a sweet temperament but fiercely competitive of each other. You couldn’t ride one without bringing the other. As such they were their favorite mounts.

The shade did little to cool them. The humidity from the bay and the intensity of their race made her clothes cling to her like a second skin. Daenerys shared her discomfort, batting her hands in an attempt to make up for the lack of wind. They would have let their horses drink from the stream that ran a hundred yards adjacent to the road but the influx of bodies to the capital had turned the normally clear stream brown with mud and waste.

A crowd of smallfolk surrounded them and Daenerys took the lead in greeting them. Her father had worked hard to improve the lives of smallfolk and Daenerys was one of the biggest proponents of his efforts. In Kings Landing her aunt had spearheaded orphanage reforms and worked to organize setting aside portions of the harvest to feed normally helpless children.

Her and Margaery were well known for walking with the people and works of charity. Though Margaery liked to hand out coin and bread while Daenerys focused on long term improvements. Their efforts had earned them the love of the people and smallfolk from distant lands knew of their reputation.

Visenya was less known, preferring to read history, play music or train with her bow. Daenerys was usually the one who dragged her out of the library like she had done this morning. Still the smallfolk greeted her warmly all the same. Her silver locks marked her relation to the king and her father was well loved.

It took nearly five minutes for the rest of their party to catch up to them. Ser Arys Oakheart was the first to reach them, followed shortly by Ser Loras, Margaery and ten guardsmen assigned to them. The guardsmen were members of the elite castle guard that her father formed in the years after the rebellion. A step above the gold cloaks yet below the highest prestige of the Kingsguard, each man wore red and black mail with the banner of House Targaryen emblazoned on their chest. Red cloaks billowed from their backs with the distinctive visage of the Red Keep as their sigil. All were mounted on strong destriers who were panting from their sprint after the princesses.

Ser Arys’ light brown hair stuck to his face like a mop and his face was flushed from the heat and his anger. He was too respectful of a Kingsguard to yell at them but his tone was terse. “Princesses, it is very difficult to protect you both if you pull so far forward.” It looked like he was sweltering under his white enameled plate. His silk white cloak was pinned by the golden leaf of his house. Across the white armor was a tunic displaying House Oakheart’s sigil, three green leaves on a golden field.

Ser Loras, who only showed a minor annoyance, likely calmed by his sister said “I second that. In the time it took to catch up with you, anything could of happened.” He looked around at the gathering of smallfolk. The press of them had lightened as their guard formed a protective perimeter. Loras’ brown curls for once hung limply as they were drenched with sweat. His coat of arms was stained with mud, obscuring the golden rose of house Tyrell. Perhaps he had fallen trying to keep up with them?

Visenya was going to apologize for their rashness but Daenerys beat her to the punch. “My apologies Sers. Perhaps we can find some guards who can keep up.” Her lilac eyes flashed in challenge. The two of them were not without protection when they left their guards behind. Both carried the daggers Sam had brought back as gifts from Jon and both of them had enough marital training to know how to use them. Her father had been insistent that none of his girls would be unable to defend themselves if the need rose. Ser Arys nodded, understanding that Daenerys would do as she pleased. Ser Loras looked ready to argue and then thought better. Visenya caught the look of disdain Margaery flashed Daenerys when her back was turned. Her grey eyes met the golden ones with an unspoken warning hidden in their depths.

Aegon might have been enamored by her and Rhaenys might have accepted her as a close companion but she had read enough history to know that the Tyrells were a grasping house. Oaths sworn only had meaning when it benefitted them. Her father had taught her early on to read between the lines of history. The Tyrells may have fought under the Targaryen banner but they were content to sit out the war under the pretext of laying siege to the Usurper’s brother. If her father had died on the Trident or in the wildfire like so many in the storming of the capital, then Lord Tyrell would have been happy to kneel to any successor. Whether they flew a Targaryen banner or not. While Margaery had done nothing ill towards her or her family, Visenya wouldn’t trust her like she did Dany or Rhae. Not until the heiress was wed and heavy with Aegon’s child.

Ser Arys and Ser Loras took positons on either side and slight behind while the Red Guards formed a protective escort. Margaery rode to the other side of Daenerys. Unlike the two of them who were only recognizable as princesses by their hair color, Margaery’s appearance was carefully crafted.

She wore a bright green dress embroidered with golden roses along the seams of her bust and waist. A long cloak attached by solid gold thorns hung from her shoulders down to her horse’s back. Her chestnut locks were interwoven with white roses and a wide brimmed hat protected her from the bright sun. What house she belonged to could not be forgotten as emblazoned on her cloak was the Tyrell Sigil: A golden rose on a green field. The dress clung tightly to her form, showcasing her curves. It showed just enough cleavage to peak interest but not enough to be called immodest. Compared to the dresses Rhaenys wore, it was very tame.

‘How can she stand the heat?’ Visenya wondered. Even before they raced the last mile to the city, her and Daenerys were sweltering in their leathers and sleeveless vests. If Margaery was experiencing any discomfort then she hid it well.

Margaery’s smile was bright and her wave was a picture of courtesy as she greeted the enthusiastic small folk. They passed through the portcullis of the lion gate without incident and made their way inside the city. The traffic was smaller than usual, most were trying to make their way to the ports even though the gold cloaks had restricted access.

Word had come to them on their ride that Tyrion’s aforementioned Bravossi war galleys had been seen in the bay. Father would have normally diverted them to somewhere outside of the city where port traffic and city life wouldn’t have been disrupted from all the attention but whatever Tyrion was bringing was too large to pass through any of the seven gates.

The smallfolk knew something monumental was happening as the River Gate was expanded, Fishmonger square had been practically cleared and all along the road up to Rhaenys hill where the ruined Dragonpit resided, shops and houses had been demolished and their residents compensated and relocated for the need of additional space.

The boldest of the onlookers shouted as they passed. “Is it the Prince?”

“Has the Dragon Prince returned?”

“Does he bring an army with him?”

Visenya leaned into Daenerys and asked a question of her own. “Do you think he’s on those ships?”

Daenerys brow furrowed. She shook her head. “No, we would have seen him. Or heard something about his dragon.”

That was true. Ships on the Blackwater had spotted the Bravossi ships over an hour ago. A dragon could cross that distance in minutes. Still many took periodic looks to the sky, waiting with bated breath for legend to become reality.

They would wait longer for Syraxes didn’t appear above the city. Visenya wondered how long they would have to wait. It had been several weeks since Sam had arrived and just over five days since Tyrion’s letter announcing their arrival came through. With rumors and tales of Jon’s journey coming through, Nobles and smallfolk were arriving in droves. The city was abuzz with anticipation.

The moniker of ‘Dragon Prince’ had spread like wildfire and even the nobles had taken to calling Jon that. Despite the attempts of their family to keep Jon’s gifts of Valyrian steel a secret, the nobility had found out and were convinced either Jon had a secret stash of weaponry or he knew the sorcery required to craft new swords. Daenerys had told her that the lords were gossiping about how much the crown was going to charge for the steel. She had overheard Lord’s willing to sell their daughters for a blade. They would be disappointed though, Jon had enough swords for the Kingsguard, her brother and father, one for himself and a slender sword meant for their northern cousin Arya. Apparently, she was a wild as their mother had been and finally with Jon’s insistence, Arya had been allowed to train with a sword.

They rode around the base of Visenya’s hill towards the River Gate. Riverrow was home to fishmongers, sea captains and any with business along the harbor. The streets were pressed in tight by homes on both sides. The nearest were little more than wooden shacks that doubled as market stalls during the day. The smell of fish and sweat was strong in this part of town, though it was leagues better than flea bottom. This was one of the oldest parts of the city and one of the few that remained untouched when her Grandfather burnt down most of the city with wildfire to spite her father. As such there were few gardens in this part and little to reduce the smell.

Their horses waded through a sea of curious bodies who either pushed to move closer to Fishmongers Square or stopped to stare at the three of them and their guards. Gold Cloaks who were posted around the road, joined in to enforce a clear pathway. Some had to be shoved out the way to move. Daenerys yelled out “Easy with her!” to a guard who shoved a skinny woman to the ground.

With such a large influx of people flowing into the city, the watch had been expanded accordingly. Nearly fifteen hundred new members added in the last few weeks. Understandably not all of the recruits were up to the standards of the city watch. The new hires were distinguished by brown cloaks and boiled leather rather than Gold and Black mail. It had earned them the moniker ‘Shit Cloaks’, hardly clever but somewhat appropriate.

“What’s your name sweetheart?” Daenerys asked the young woman who looked terrified to have royalty addressing her. Daenerys smile was bright, genuine and reassuring.

“Perra, my name’s-uh Perra your grace.” The woman stuttered but she met Daenerys smile with a hesitant one of her own.

“Very well Perra. In apology for his actions-“She looked to the chastened guard for his response.

“Rolf, your grace.” He didn’t meet her eyes, instead he found some spot on the ground to stare at.

“Rolf will be giving up today’s earnings to you. Spend it wisely.” The girl beamed, onlookers nearby clapped and Rolf looked ready to protest until another brown cloak elbowed him in the ribs.

Corruption and abuse of power was inevitable in any elevated position. This was especially true in the ranks of the city watch who were notorious for taking bribes. Daenerys with her father’s blessing had taken an active stance against those who abused their positions. Whether it was Lords or lowborn guards, Dany had no trouble calling out their actions.

Most women who were married to a man they didn’t love or care for would have been content to dedicate themselves to a frivolous pastime. Daenerys had dedicated herself to the people. While she didn’t have an official position on the small council, her father included her aunt in many discussions about the cities governance.

“Good work Daenerys, I’m sure he’ll learn his lesson now.” Margaery said. With Margaery’s own love for charity and her frequent walks throughout the city to converse with the people, her and Dany had found something to bond over.

Daenerys smiled at the Heiress of Highgarden, though her eyes still had some intensity “For his sake, he better have.” Many said her aunt was the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms or even in the world, Visenya thought that she was among the most formidable as well.

They reached Fishmongers Square nearly half an hour after riding through River Row. A column of Gold Cloaks were holding back the crowds and their Captain waved them through. “Hoy Princesses! I can’t wait to see what the Imp has brought back. Do you think Prince Jaehaerys is with them?” Ser Jarmen Buckwell asked. He was a senior member of the Gold Cloaks and had been offered a promotion to the Red Guard multiple times. Daenerys said Buckwell refused because he liked to be among the people.

“I can barely wait either Ser. And it seems like half the city is pushing for a look. My nephew’s return isn’t causing you too much trouble I hope?” Daenerys in assisting with her father to weed out corruption in the city guard had taken to getting to know the names of the officers. She said Ser Jarmen was one of the best.

“Nothing more than its worth. If Prince Jaehaerys is bring dragons and Valyrian steel back, then I’ll gladly hold back the onlookers. Just tell him to hurry up will ya? I have a bet of ten golden dragons that he shows up tomorrow and lands in the Dragonpit. Var here thinks he won’t be coming until the end of the month and he’ll land outside of the city.”

“End of the month?” Margaery asked in mock shock. “Let us hope he doesn’t make us wait that long.”

‘Well Pet here thinks the Prince is flying North first, to bring the Starks on the back of his dragon.”

They laughed at that. No doubt the Starks would be on the short list of those who would get a ride on dragons back. Hopefully Jon would spare them the anxiety and come to Kings Landing first though.

Fishmongers square was normally bustling with activity until well after sunset. Usually there were market stalls that sold the catches of the day: seals, crabs and the large fish that prowled the deep water of the Blackwater. Today however the square was empty save for their guard and the cloaks who would be escorting them. Father had restricted access to the port until they knew the contents of what the Lannisters were carrying. A wide pathway had been cleared all the way from the half torn down River Gate through the Muddy Way. Where a portcullis and two cylindrical guard towers once stood, stacks of neatly lined bricks were laid out to the entrance of the ports.

Her brother was there leaning against the bricks. He looked every bit the crown prince in rich silken garments colored in the red and black of their house. His hair was long, brushing his shoulders and his purple eyes flashed when he saw them.

She smiled warmly and waved in greeting. “Hey Egg.”

Aegon returned her wave. “Where did you find these two? I thought my sisters were coming not vagabonds!”

She jumped out of her horse’s saddle and hit his arm playfully. He lifted her and twirled her around.

Daenerys dismounted and shared a quick hug with her brother. Margaery was next to greet him. Aegon bent to place a light kiss across her knuckles. The smile they shared was full of affection and their eyes looked like they were sharing a secret. Though of what she didn’t know.

Her uncle appeared from the gap in the city walls that used to be the gate with his eldest daughter Aerea and Rhaella. They were five, silver haired with blue eyes. Sweet girls, she had grown fond of her cousins. Viserys looked tired but happy. He had spent most of the last years with his wife’s family in the city of Volantis. As such, the few months he spent in Kings Landing were the first chance she had received to meet her cousins.

The stories told about her uncle from her father and grandmother told of how he was brash, full of pride and had a heavy sense of entitlement. However, the presence of his three young daughters and the death of his wife, who died birthing the fourth had humbled him somewhat. While most were glad that Viserys was far down the line of succession, she was happy to have him back. Family should stick together.

Her father was of the same opinion and the current rumor was Viserys would be receiving Fawnton as a reward for good behavior. It was the former residence of House Cofferen which had been extinguished during the Usurper’s war. Viserys may have been gunning for the newly rebuilt Summerhall or even Dragonstone but even he couldn’t complain about the Keep. It was a small, defensible castle with rich lands. Being just south of the Kingswood meant a few days ride to either Kingslanding or Summerhall.

They greeted their uncle and Daenerys scooped little Rhaella in her arms. Her twin sister was currently in Viserys arms.

“How are you little one?” Daenerys asked. Little Rhaella smiled shyly and buried her face in Daenerys’ neck.

“Can you see the ships yet uncle?” Aegon asked.

Viserys nodded eagerly. At his side the sword Jon gifted him was strapped to his waste. The handle looked far more elegant than it did coming out of the chest. Strangely Viserys had some of the highest enthusiasm for Jon’s return and boasted to anyone who would listen about his involvement in Jon’s quest. Curiously the tale had gone from him simply providing residence to Jon and the Lannisters to Viserys personally financing her brother’s journey into the smoking sea. “There is no mistaking them.” Her uncle answered.

They moved to the docks to witness the arrival of the ships. Visenya gasped at the sight of them. Even at this distance they looked massive. She had thought reading about them in her books would prepare her for the sight. She was wrong.

Huge bright red sails emblazoned with the Titan of Braavos propelled the galleys. Over three hundred oars dipped into the water. The ships were tripled decked with stark white hulls. At over four hundred feet long, they were larger than anything in her father’s fleet. It was said that the Sealord of Braavos commanded ships that were second to none, and she knew that kings, triachs and archons had all made offers over the years to purchase the warships. They were all refused. How Tyrion managed to secure not one but three of these ships, was a story that she wished to hear.

Behind the massive ships, she could see that the three of them were actually towing an equally massive flat bottom barge. On top of the barge were large columns and shapes made of black stone. As the ships drew closer and slowed to pull into port, she could make out glyphs and elaborate carvings on the stone. White and red runes decorated the surfaces and the stone looked scaled, resembling the back of a lizard lion.

Workers on the docks worked quickly to secure the ships to the port. The oars pulled in and moments later the drawbridge on the ship in the middle extended.

A man who could only be Tyrion Lannister walked first down the bridge. When she had last saw Tyrion, they had been at height with each other. Now she towered over him like most. Tyrion was far from handsome, a dwarf with stubby legs that made him waddle, a jutting forehead and mismatched green and black eyes. He had none of the fabled Lannister beauty that his elder siblings, nieces and nephews personified. Even his hair color was different, with flecks of black in his pale hair instead of spun gold. What he lacked in beauty, he made up for with wit and a self-depreciating sense of humor. “Greetings from the east. Though I’m sorry I’m not half a foot taller, more handsome with a strong tendency to brood. “

“Greetings Lord Lannister.” Aegon said, stepping forward to shake Tyrion’s hand. The Imp, as he was known to most, might have been a blight in his father’s eyes but the years he had spent at the Red Keep made him a favorite of their family.

“My Lady.” He said kissing her hand. “You have certainly grown taller.” Her answering grin was wide. Then to both her and Daenerys “And both of you have grown even more beautiful. I’m sure there are crowds of suitors vying for your hands.”

Daenerys smile faltered at the comment. Her aunt recovered quickly “Most are too nervous to court Dragons. “

Tyrion smiled. “Understandably.”

Next off the ship came Ser Jaime and Gerion Lannister. Ser Jaime hadn’t aged a day since she last saw him. He was tall, with golden hair that could match Aegon’s in beauty and handsome face with green eyes that she remembered being full of mischief. No doubt the ladies of the court would be happy to temp the man to break his vows. Even without his white armor, Jaime looked like a dashing knight.

He wore simple clothes, not even in the Lannister crimson. He looked subdued, with little enthusiasm to be back in Westeros. His right hand was covered by a glove.

Gerion Lannister looked Jaime but aged delicately by a decade. His hair was interlaced with grey strands and trailed to his shoulders. A great sword was strapped across his back. The hilt in the shape of a golden lion. “I thought my brother would be here to grace us with his presence. Or at least send some men to take my head.”

“The Lord Hand is waiting with the rest of our families at the keep. I’m sure your daughter and nieces and nephews will keep him from taking your head as well” Aegon replied.

Jaime stiffened and an odd expression crossed his face. “Cersei is here as well?”

Daenerys answered. “She, Lord Edmure and their children arrived yesterday. The Westerlands party is here as well.”

Tyrion and Gerion seemed enthused about the eventual family reunion, Jaime seemed tense. His right hand twitched absentmindedly and Visenya wondered why he wore the glove. It was far too hot for such a thing. Maybe it was a new fashion trend he picked up in the east?

“What is that your towing? It looks like the stones from Dragonstone.” Daenerys asked. They all looked to the three Lannisters for answers.

Gerion and Tyrion wore matching wide grins. The older man spoke. “That’s your family’s legacy. Straight from the heart of the freehold, a guaranteed way to hatch those dragon eggs.”

“What do you mean?” Visenya blurted out. Her mind raced a mile per minute. Her whole family had felt the dragon eggs and the consensus was that there were notable bursts of heat and maybe small movements. Her mother though said the eggs felt like cold, hard stone no matter how long she held them. Years upon years had fossilized the eggs.

“Here isn’t the place to discuss family secrets princess. Especially ones as big as this one.” Gerion had a teasing smile on his lips.

A large part of Visenya wanted to argue. Her need for answers had been insatiable since the news of Jon’s return had reached them. With the help of her father, Grandmaester Marwyn and Sam they poured over text about dragons and Valyria. Any books they could find were added to the high stacks on the desks in the library.

Disappointingly most was speculation from Maesters who had very little firsthand knowledge about dragons, especially on how the Targaryens of old hatched theirs. Some accounts said that her ancestors simply placed the eggs in the cradles of their children and that was enough for them to hatch. She had slept with her egg for over a week and there had been no change. When she told Dany of her attempts, they had tried placing the eggs in her fireplace to see if heat would prompt a hatching. All it did was create a pretty light show.

Daenerys pulled her gently to her horse. She realized then that her musings caused her to slip into a daydream. It was a common enough occurrence that her father gave her the nickname ‘Visenya the Dreamer’.

‘Sorry about that.” She whispered to her aunt, a blush coloring her cheeks.

Daenerys simply smiled. “Don’t worry you’ll get your answers soon enough.”

The ride back to the keep was loud. First the crowd saw Tyrion who was unmistakable on his horse with a custom-made saddle of his own design, made to accommodate his too short legs. It took them a second longer to realize that Tyrion being in their party meant his elder brother was as well.

The cheers of the crowd were incredible. “Ser Jaime!”

“It’s Ser Jaime!”

“The White Lion!” They chanted.

Having grown used to the reaction over the years, Ser Jaime had a remarkably reserved reaction for a man returning to a city that considered you its greatest hero. A smile tugged at his lips and he waved at the crowd.

The cheers grew even louder as more took up the chant. “White Lion!” rippled throughout the city.

His deeds during the rebellion were the stuff of song and legend. Ser Jaime hadn’t fought in any of the battles in the rebellion except for one. He was a hostage of her grandfather as much as Queen Elia and her eldest siblings had been. When the Mad King saw the united force lead by her Father with the purpose overthrowing him at the city gates, the true intensity of his madness was shown to all.

The Dornish forces led by Ser Lewyn Martell were the first to storm the city in an effort to save their Queen and her children. They were also the first to die in the wildfire explosions. Her grandfather, full of rage and spite planted wildfire caches throughout the city. Near the entirety of the Dornish host was wiped out in a single instance.

Ser Jaime was the one who saved the rest of the city from the same fate. He saved Queen Elia and her brother and sister from being burnt alive in the throne room. He was the one who hunted down the commanding Pyromancers, who killed the King’s most ardent supporters. Jaime would have killed her Grandfather as well but Queen Elia pleaded for mercy. She knew that a Kingsguard killing a king, even a mad one, wasn’t something that the realm would easily forgive.  
The smallfolk loved him and named him the cities savior. Those who knew politics blessed Jaime for saving them from a generation of war.

When they reached the Keep her mother and father along with the rest of the Lannisters and Tully party were waiting for them. Ghost was waiting besides her mother as well. With his massive size and pure white fur, he looked like he belonged in the Kingsguard.

Jaime, Tyrion and Gerion paid their respects to the King and Queen. ‘Your grace” They said dropping to one knee.

“It’s good to see you all in one piece, though it seems you are missing a prince and his dragon.” Her father’s tone was light, but she could tell when he was irritated.

“The Prince is preoccupied. He and Syraxes left before we set sail, I imagine they are on their way back now.” Tyrion replied.

“So, the rumors about the dragon are true?” Joffrey Tully interrupted. He was tall for a boy of fifteen, already eclipsing his mother who was taller than her own. He had his mother’s golden hair but blue eyes instead of the traditional Lannister green. Visenya might have considered him handsome if it weren’t for the perpetual air of superiority that he carried.

“The rumors are very true nephew. Syraxes is a real life, fire breathing, flying reign of terror.” Gerion said. He chuckled as Joffrey’s eyes went comically wide.

“And Jon can ride it?” Myrcella asked. Where Joffrey was spoiled shit no doubt fueled by his mother’s coddling, his twin was sweet, quiet and shy. Rhaenys whispered that she had all of her mother’s beauty and then some, with none of the attitude.

“Jon can not only ride her but according to some very interesting reports, he and Syraxes were quite the terror on the Dothraki sea.” Gerion quipped.

Myrcella gasped, a reaction that was shared by most.

“What do you mean quite the ‘terror’? Did Jon attack those savages?” Joffrey asked.

Jaime took an exasperated breath. “Jon attacked an entire Khalasar. Apparently, he won because there have been reports of thousands of Dothraki fleeing their own sea.”

Visenya didn’t miss the gleam that went through Cersei’s eyes nor how the woman whispered into her daughter’s ear. Myrcella flushed at the words.

“Perhaps we should take this to a more private area.” Tyrion offered.

There was a small protest by Joffery and Edmure at being left out but a single look from Tywin silenced father and son. Cersei looked angry as well but knew her place and didn’t cause a scene, Myrcella moved to follow her family but was stopped by Tywin. He was insistent that Myrcella attend the meeting. Lyanna looked ready to argue but a hand from Rhaegar calmed her.

They entered her father’s study which was spacious enough to hold all of them. Rhaenys was already there, cross-legged and eating an apple. Her eyebrow raised as they stared at her. “What? I knew you’d come here next.”

Visenya laughed and squeezed next to her big sister on the long couch. Rhaenys hugged her shoulder in greeting and planted a kiss on her cheek. Her lips were wet with apple juice and she giggled when Visenya wiped her cheek in mock disgust.

They were all seated, the Targaryens on the couch, the three newly returned Lannisters with Myrcella opposite of them and Tywin seated on a chair between the two parties.

A servant came passing out goblets of wine, which Tyrion and Gerion took long pulls from and then promptly asked for refills. The two pointedly ignored Tywin’s somewhat scathing look. The rest of their party took far more measured sips.

Gerion pulled the great sword from its sheath. It was a golden blade with Valyrian steel swirls that dazzled them. “First this is Brightroar. Beautiful and lost for centuries, reclaimed by Lannisters and Targaryens.”

The Lord Hand’s eyes gleamed and for once the formidable politician looked unsure of himself as he reached for the sword. Gerion handed the hilt to his brother who gripped it gingerly. It was truly beautiful. Lannister gold and crimson made up the hilt and cross guard. The blade was double edged with a deep fuller. House Lannister’s words ‘Hear Me Roar’ were etched in black within the fuller. “How?” Tywin’s simple question conveyed the awe he felt.

For centuries house Lannister had been deprived of a Valyrian sword, ever since King Tommen of the Rock set sail to Valyria. While Jon’s sword and Dragon eggs certainly suggested the truth of their journey, the ancient sword of House Lannister would quiet any doubt.

“It wasn’t easy. If you can get past the volcanoes, the poisonous gases and the stone men then it gets even worse.” Gerion answered. A grimace passed across the Lannister faces.

“What’s in there?” Aegon asked.

“To tell you the truth, we don’t know. Most of the Peninsula is inaccessible. The land is poisoned or cursed, I doubt we could make the same journey safely.”

“What did you see? How did you make it out of there?” Tywin’s voice was insistent and commanding. Gerion looked annoyed but continued.

“It’s what we didn’t see. There is a feeling of despair there, it’s easy to lose your wits and see things that aren’t there. Shapes in the shadows or voices in your head.”

She could see her father turning the words over in his head. Likely he wanted to ask if that is what happened to Jon but none of them wanted to reveal the condition of Jon’s mental state until they could see the truth themselves.

“Losing your wits is common there?” Her father asked the loaded question.

Gerion nodded. “There are physical dangers other than poison gases and boiling water. Deformed, viscous creatures that have no fear of man and are in none of the Maester’s tomes. The monsters are real but the ones in the mind are usually worse.”

That really peaked her interest. Valyria was wrapped in mystery. None could explore the ruins and the annals of all but the Freehold’s greatest conquests had been lost when the Doom came. They were the last of the 40 dragon families but were as ignorant about their history as the rest of the world.

“Dragons too?” Aegon asked.

“As far as we can tell, the dragons are all dead. Except for Syraxes. These creatures were corrupted, blights on the world. Likely failed experiments of their masters’ sorcery.” Tyrion said.

“Have you ever wondered why every great exploration into Valyria is done with an army? The last Dragonlord Aurion had a dragon that was over a century year old and he still gathered an army of thirty thousand before marching. King Tommen sailed with a fleet of over a hundred ships and when he didn’t return the Volantine sent another hundred after him. All have been totally lost.”

“That was always queer. The Maesters say-“

Gerion interrupted her father. “The Maesters don’t know shit. Valyria is the place in the world where magic burns the brightest and cast the darkest shadows. Whatever ended those thousands of men is still there. Perhaps it been muted over the years but it is still present.”

They were speaking of magic? The skeptic in her reared its head. She had read enough books that if she were a man, she could have been at the citadel with a few links in her chain already forged. Valyrians were synonymous with magic, even her namesake, the wife of Aegon the Conqueror was rumored to have delved into dark magic. Yet every mention of magic throughout the annals of history had been met with a healthy bit of skepticism and most authors were able to provide more logical explanations. While her families unmatched ability to tame and ride dragons couldn’t be explained, a hundred years without dragons had given many the impression that if magic ever existed then it was long dead now.

Tyrion could see their skepticism. “I admit, even traveling with a boy who could warg a direwolf the size of a warhorse I was a skeptic as well. Jaime why don’t you show them your hand.”

Jaime and Tyrion shared a look. The taller man looked uncomfortable, even angry at being put in the center of attention. After a moment he relented. Sighing he pulled of his glove and pulled back his sleeve to the middle of his forearm. A collective gasp rang through the room.

His entire hand and much of his arm had been replaced by Valyrian steel. His wrist rotated, and his fingers clenched and moved like they were made of his own flesh. Across the surface of the steel were red runes that look liked like veins. They pulsed with each movement of his hand and arm. Where metal met flesh the skin was black with the same red lines of pulsing power. The seam was smooth, and the metal looked like it had grown from his arm. “I lost it in the Dothraki sea when we killed the Khal and his blood riders. Jon refused to dismiss me as his guardian and made me whole again.”

Rhaenys reached out to touch the hand and Jaime snatched his arm away before she could reach. “Careful Princess, this hand has a mind of its own.”

“Sorry” Rhaenys whispered as Jaime put his glove back on. His green eyes winked at her letting her know no harm had been done.

“Jon did this? How would he know anything about magic?” Her mother asked. Her father held her to his chest in an effort to assuage her concerns.

“He has moments of inspiration that strike him. Maybe its memories locked away in his blood or the magic of Valyria revealing itself to him but Jon was right about Jaime’s hand and he was able to hatch his dragon. When he gets back from the smoking sea, who knows what he will able to do.” Gerion said.

“Is that what he’s doing now? Why declare war against the Dothraki?” Daenerys asked.

“Jon is convinced that a man who was involved in Elaerys’ death might have joined this massive Khalasar we heard about. A Khalasar if reports can be believed has, or rather had forty thousand riders.” Tyrion said.

“Forty thousand against a single dragon? Is Jon insane?” Rhaenys exclaimed.

“He didn’t need to kill them all just give them the impression that he was willing and able to. Apparently, it worked.” Tyrion said with a shrug.

“So my son is consumed by Vengeance? Even if he didn’t kill all of them, those odds are still dire.” Her father said.

“I assure you Orgo need to die. If we could have killed him a year and a half ago then Jon would have been here by now. I almost pity the man if Jon got a hold of him.” Jaime answered. The words sent a shiver down her spine. Daenerys and her mother had similar expressions of worry.

“Jon can be your most loyal ally but if you hurt someone he loves then he will bring fire and blood. A true Dragonlord indeed.” Tyrion added solemnly.

Her father swallowed the lump in his throat. “And the black stone that you’re carrying on the ships, is that Jon’s idea as well?”

“Aye.” Then Tyrion pulled a folded parchment from the satchel at his waist. He unfolded it and the plans were laid across the table. “This is a birthing chamber for your dragons. The plans are a mash of Jon’s inspiration and my own ingenuity.”

They all crowded around the table to stare at the plans. They were highly detailed, from how tall and thick the towers would be, to how wide the subterranean tunnels needed to be. The ornate structure was absolutely massive. What was above ground was nearly as big as the Dragonpit had been but the tunnels ran far deeper, hundreds of feet into the ground.

“We would have to completely tear down the Dragonpit to build this.” Aegon commented. It was true, the entire ruins and likely a lot of the surrounding structures needed to be removed to clear space for the gargantuan building. It would dominate the skyline along with the keep and the great sept.

“Why do we need this? The Targaryens before us didn’t have anything like this to hatch their dragons.” Rhaenys asked.

“Actually, they did. Have you ever wondered why Aenar Targaryen fled the Freehold and then your family waited a hundred years before invading Westeros? Other Dragonlords were dead for decades and from what history has shown us, your family would have had little trouble conquering the Seven Kingdoms with the dragons they had.” Tyrion said. Visenya found herself liking him more and more. He was an absolute fountain of knowledge.

Aegon’s brow furrowed. “Maybe they were waiting and planning, for more dragons or simply gathering allies.”

Visenya shook her head. “Our family had five dragons when they left Valyria. Balerion was the only one of those five who survived to participate in the conquest. Vhagar and Myraxes hatched on Dragonstone, likely decades after our ancestors settled.”

“I see you haven’t been lacking in your history lessons princess.” Gerion said with a grin.

“Thank you, my lord.” She blushed at the compliment and then laughed as Rhaenys tickled her teasingly.

“Your family was digging tunnels under Dragonstone, which sits on an undersea volcano. Birthing chambers need a tremendous amount of heat.”

“So, they built a chamber to hatch their eggs. Why didn’t we need Dragonstone in later years to birth Dragon eggs?”

“The vast majority of dragons in Targaryen history were born on Dragonstone, whether the birthing chamber was used or not. What is likely the answer is that once you have enough dragons the magic required reaches sufficient density that the chambers are no longer needed but they still prove useful. After the Dance, with the death of so many dragons it is likely much of the magic required to hatch the eggs naturally disappeared. I think the later generations of Targaryens forgot the significance of Dragonstone.” Tyrion answered.

A ring of nods went through the chamber. Her mother and Myrcella looked mystified, Lord Tywin was unreadable. Everyone with the blood accepted the words. It made sense why the remote fortress was so significant. Why it felt so familiar to all of them.

“So, if we already have a birthing chamber why do we need another one?” Aegon asked.

Tyrion turned to her. “Visenya what do you know of the Valyrians and their government?”

She thought of her readings then and took a moment to compose her thoughts. “Some think of the Freehold as an empire because they conquered so much land. In truth they never were an empire or at least they never had an emperor. There were forty families that could ride dragons and were the most powerful voices but there was also sorcerer princes, nobility and landholders that all had a voice. Our house was one of the forty dragon families, not the most powerful but our dragons guaranteed that we had influence.”

“Very good!” Tyrion looked immensely impressed. The two of them would be great friends. “But incorrect on the Emperor aspect. There were at least a few examples of Valyria having an emperor. It was always done during times of strife, where a singular leader was more effective than a chorus of voices. The last Ghiscari wars, the war that wiped out the Rhoynar and finally the Doom. Each time the Emperor was elected and temporarily became the supreme authority over their armies and civil government. I imagine Aurion was not only the last Dragonlord but also the highest-ranking member of the Freehold. The surviving Valyrians probably declared him emperor as an emergency protocol.”

“A line of succession.” Daenerys added.

“Yes exactly. Now imagine when there are no external wars. You have forty proud and powerful families with beasts who can cause untold amounts of destruction. How do you keep them in line? How do you prevent a civil war?”

“A powerful, impartial government? Something with enough armaments to keep the dragon families in line.” Her mother offered.

“Exactly. A power that had enough resources to ensure internal strife didn’t tear the Freehold apart. They had the best weapons, armor, the best warriors and most importantly the best dragons.”

“There are tiers of Dragons?” Rhaenys asked. She seemed both amused and intrigued.

“Very few I imagine. Dragons are far too long lived for any notable deviations in the standard, with the relatively short amount of time the Valyrians ruled. But still there are examples of dragons that are superior than others. Balerion lived the longest of any known dragon and he was considered one of the fiercest. Caraxes was a relatively young dragon during the dance yet he was one of the most formidable, other dragons have been born sickly or have less fierce temperaments. Often size determines the winner of dragon battles but there are several examples of dragons with an above average ability for war. Meleys was able to hold her own against Vhagar and Sunfyre despite being several decades younger than Vhagar. If it weren’t for the two on one fighting she might have been able to get the upper hand over Vhagar. It stands to reason that the most talented sorcerers with the resources of an overarching government could have bred dragons with the most desirable features.”

“And Jon’s dragon is one of these creations?” Her father asked.

“Certainly. A dragon created to dominate multiple dragons if need be, faster growth rate, hotter fires and a subsequently larger temper. We found incomplete notes in the ruins. Syraxes’ breed was the Freehold’s answer to any families who thought to destabilize the Freehold. Hatching those eggs requires a tremendous amount of heat and concentrated magic. More than Dragonstone can likely produce.”

“So, will all of our eggs hatch these super dragons?” Rhaenys asked.

“Unfortunately, no. Jon’s egg was one of the three we found. The other two are the black egg and the red one. All else are normal dragon eggs. “

Aegon’s eyes flashed. They had all laid claim to their eggs. He had claimed a golden egg. Rhaenys a blue. Her father a green. Viserys was a teal with crimson flakes. Grandmother’s was a brown. Her and Dany had the special eggs, Dany the black and she the red.

“You said we need heat. There are no volcanoes or vents in Westeros other than Dragonstone and Winterfell. Why would we build on Rhaenys’ hill?” Daenerys asked.

The three Lannisters looked uncomfortable answering the question.

Her father pressed. “Well?”

“We are going to need Wildfire and lots of it.” Tyrion stated.

Visenya laid her head down, exhausted after a long day. The uproar that followed Tyrion’s announcement had certainly been something. Most of the pyromancers that were prevalent in her grandfather’s court had been executed or sent to the wall. The few that had been spared were only necessary because some of their stock were so old and volatile that only experts could handle them. Her brother would have to convince her father before he authorized the production.

The last thoughts on her mind before she fell asleep were of Jon. She hoped he was safe.

Her dreams were so vivid they felt like reality. The scenes twisted into one another too smoothly for her to make out the transition.

She saw Jon on a silver dragon with cerulean wings that spit gold and blue flames on hundreds of screaming men and horses. She saw her brother on the same field cut down three men in quick succession with a beautiful sword made sinister from the gore. The air around him smoked and burned.

She saw her brother in scaled armor fighting a man who was heavily armored in the dornish fashion. Sword and spear clashed as Jon and his opponent danced around each other.

She saw her brother with dark lines running across his chest, like black veins were crawling for his heart as his body was given to the flames.

She saw Rhaenys surrounded by swords wielded by men with cruel eyes.

She saw Aegon being crowned, his face far too young with no grey in his hair.

She saw armored men with the seven-pointed star on their chest, burning a field of weirwood trees. A woman’s voice screamed terribly in the distance.

She saw massive dragons fighting in the sky.


	5. The Last Dragonlord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Syraxes face a large Khalasar in battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to GOT88 for the beta reading and Haermonys for the edits on the photo of Jon/Aegon the Conqueror. She did an amazing job editing the hair color.

**Jaehaerys ‘Jon’ Targaryen**

****

“ _Dracarys!”_ Jon screamed into the wind. Brilliant, cerulean and gold flames leapt from the mouth of Syraxes, the heat so intense that he had to press his face into her scales for comfort. The screams of dying horses and burning horse lords followed. Long plumes of smoke were rising into the sky as the grasslands of the Dothraki sea were set aflame.

A hundred feet below them tens of thousands poured out into the sea. Their horses’ hooves had turned the soil into a muddy mess and clumps of grass, soil and horse dung were flung into the air as the horses stampeded. He had caught them in the middle of sacking a village. The sounds of dying men and screaming women had carried over the sea. Smells of blood and fear had attracted Syraxes however. She was a hunter and the possibility of spilling fire and blood attracted her like a moth to a flame.

Amid battle with the smell of burning horse flesh assaulting their shared senses and the sounds of those below screaming in either fear or anger, it was hard not to over indulge in the desire for the destruction that was coursing through Syraxes. Ever since he had hatched her, the instincts of his dragon had become as much a part of him as his own desires. Dragons were creatures of destruction and Syraxes was no exception.

She was reveling in the chaos unfolding below them. Positively delighted by the fact that sight of her had set tens of thousands of Dothraki in to panic. He could feel the pride running thickly through their bond and could tell that she wanted nothing more than to dive into the midst of them and unleash more chaos. The more she grew, the harder it became to distinguish that the penchant for bloodlust originated from his dragon and not of his volition. He had worried what would happen if they ever went into combat together and now he knew. A desire to watch his enemies burn became like a fierce hunger in his belly. Shaking his head Jon observed the field below them.

The horse lords were crazed, simultaneously in fury and fear. Weakest among them had taken to hiding among the structures of the sacked village. They were built of straw and mud with stone making up the low walls of the village. Hardly defensible, even the largest structures looked flimsy and were unlikely to hold up from any kind of extended assault. These villagers likely survived by making offerings to the passing Dothraki hordes and hoping that would be enough to satisfy the horse lords. Apparently today it hadn’t been.

Some of the Dothraki were scattering into the surrounding grasslands or stampeding over the farmers’ fields to make their escape. It was a mass exodus, thousands of people pouring out of the village who assumed the walls were not enough to deter a dragon. A bulk of the horde had not even entered the village: the women, children and men too weak to fight. Those that had the ability to flee were scattering like the rest. While the young and the crippled dropped between the tall blades of the red grass hoping to disappear.

Still a host of the warriors of the Khalasar had chosen to fight. They galloped into the sea in a haphazard fashion only to quickly pull into formation all without needing to stop or slow their horses. Through Syraxes’ amber orbs, Jon could see the mounted arches lift in their saddles and take aim with their bows even as their mounts turned sharply. Dozens of arrows were released and flew towards him.

If his legs weren’t strapped into Syraxes’ saddle, then he would have been thrown from the force of her violent turn. His dragon roared in anger as the arrows slammed into her underbelly. None could have pierced her at their distance, but she was not yet old enough for her scales to have harden to completely negate the force of the blows. He made an effort to soothe her over their mental connection, so her anger wouldn’t boil over.

Dragons were unlike other mounts. Where horses or sand steeds would run from danger, dragons sought it out. Pain was a stimulant to incite their anger. Enough of it sent them into a fury. If Jon wasn’t there to provide direction, then Syraxes likely would of dove headlong into the Khalasar with the intent to kill as many of them as possible. 

It would mean her death though. She was young. Dragons were born bold and fierce, but it took several decades for them to become neigh invincible. Her scales were tough, but they had yet to become as hard as plate armor, as the hides of ancient Targaryen dragons had been reported to be. Only her fire seemed to be the exception of her youth. While Syraxes was just large enough to comfortably carry a single rider, her dragon fire was already hot enough to melt steel. Supposedly it took historical dragons at least five decades to achieve that feat. Syraxes was only two years old.

Dothraki archers were on average very skilled. They trained to fire from horseback as soon as they were old enough to ride and for many of them hitting a target while at full gallop was something of a routine. These horselord’s were being led by someone of obvious tactical skill as well. Evidenced by the formations that were quickly forming below them. Rapidly shifting, fast moving lines were appearing. Archers were scattered throughout the lines so that each column of men could provide a volley of arrows as cover for the lines adjacent to them. A headlong dive into the mass would mean exposing her vulnerable eyes and Jon wasn’t planning on giving the horselords the satisfaction of bringing down a dragon.

He urged her for patience and she snorted in annoyance, smoke exiting her slit like nostrils. However, she listened to his instructions and climbed higher into the air so they could get a better view. Her blue wings snapped furiously and suddenly they were hundreds of feet higher than moments ago. At this height, they were far out of range of even the dragon bone bows that some of the Dothraki carried and they could see the entire battlefield below them.

By the size of the Khalasar, Jon had a strong suspicion of the Khal leading it.  There had been rumors throughout their journey in Essos of a Dothraki warlord who some were calling the Khal of Khals. He had apparently been able to assemble the largest Khalasar in existence. A host of a reported forty thousand that had only been growing larger as time went on. From his vantage point above the sea, Jon thought the number of people below them could match that reported number.

He had never come across Khal Drogo’s khalasar in his travels. Even when crossing the Dothraki sea after traveling to and from Qohor. It had been another Khal, most likely a rival of Drogo’s that had been directly responsible _Elaerys’_ fate. With the help of Jaime, they had put that Khal and his blood riders in the ground. One of the Kos’ who he knew went by the name Orgo had escaped and Jon had been listening for news of him since. The most promising had been the news that Khal Drogo had been accepting new riders by the hundreds. He had hoped Orgo’s experience leading men in his previous Khalasar would enable him to maintain that position in this new one. It would make him easier to find.

He gazed downward with his own eyes. Syraxes red orbs were far sharper than his but her field of view was too narrow. It was far more suited to lock onto a single target than surveying a battlefield. She was a predator without fear. With claws as sharp as swords and teeth as long as knives few creatures could challenge her. A wider field of vision simply wasn’t needed when you could turn your head and incinerate an attacker at whim.

Being human with far greater physical vulnerability meant that greater situational awareness was a necessity that was baked into his blood. While his eyes could not see the number of bells in the braids of the horse lords, nor the sheen of sweat on their face or the color of their eyes; he could make out the moving formations that the riders were falling into. Watching how the riders shifted positions: which riders moved first and which followed allowed Jon to roughly infer the positions of those who were leading.

While the Dothraki were mocked as savages in Westeros and most Essos as well, no one doubted their martial prowess. They were as militaristic as they were nomadic. There were few paths other than being a warrior for the men of their culture. This particular Khalasar was proving a testament to how effective their culture was in producing brave men. Even after Syraxes fell upon them without warning and burning hundreds, this Khal had been able to rally hundreds of riders with thousands more joining in formation. Syraxes was fierce and prideful but even she could not take out a whole Khalasar. The numbers were simply too great and she was far too young. Their leadership had to be targeted to break them.

Syraxes seemed to understand the need to observe their enemy rather than rush them. Her long neck stretched to look downward and her large wings flapped almost languidly as they drifted in the warm upstream. If there was anything she loved as much as fighting, then it was stalking prey. She had the tendency to ghost herds for hours, making them increasingly nervous with her presence above before she struck. Killing was as much a game for her as it was for a housecat.

Silently he thanked his mother for her insistence that he fostered in the North and Howland Reed for training him in his abilities as a warg. That training was the only reason he had any form of control over the young dragon. After her hatching Jon had quickly figured out that the rumors of dragons being highly intelligent creatures were very true. The trouble was her mind was alien and traditional communication was difficult. While she could strangely understand commands spoken in High Valyrian. She was simply too prideful or stubborn to listen to any solely verbal command. No matter the language.

Warging or connecting mentally was the only way he could get her to reliably listen. It was not without cost though. When connecting with Ghost their bond felt like slipping into a second skin. The direwolf’s senses became his own and Jon could experience the world as a wolf seamlessly. Other beasts were more difficult. They were likely to rebel if he didn’t devote constant attention and it took several repeated connections before the animal’s skin felt comfortable. Slipping into the mind of Syraxes was as natural as it was jarring.

He suspected it was due to his bloodlines. After all Targaryen’s were the last line of Dragon Lord’s from ancient Valyria and since the doom they were the only ones capable of mastering dragon flight. The ability to warg though was all attributed to his Stark blood. According to Howland Reed the Starks had gained the ability when a King of Winter had sired children on the daughter of a Warg King. To his knowledge there had never been a person descended from both the Starks and the Targaryens except for him and his sister. Howland had said that their bloodlines made their abilities unprecedented. It probably gave way to an entirely unique method to connect with dragons.

Once he had made their initial connection he had never been able to switch it off entirely. Her presence was constantly in the back of his mind and he suspected it was the same for her. She had the uncanny ability to anticipate his thoughts sometimes before he could even contemplate them. An ability that she shared with Ghost.

His suspicion of her foresight was further evidenced by the way she flew to monitor the warriors below them. Her flight patterns seemed erratic as she constantly changed directions in a two-dimensional plane. The riders below were adjusting their formations according to her movements, in order to provide a better defense against an aerial assault. Most were craning their necks to the heavens trying to get a sight of her. A few were shouting out commands and the rest of the riders scrambled under their orders to fall into formation.

A sense of understanding passed through both of them. Though hers was marked with an emotion that could only be described as glee now that their hunt could be resumed. A roar of elation pierced the afternoon air. It only briefly masked the scream of terror and excitement that escaped his lips. Syraxes pulled her wings close to her body and they entered a sharp, fast dive directed to the moving mass of riders that were panicking below them.     

The angle of their attack was too steep and their approach to fast for any of the arrows launched at them to have any hope of landing. With her wings halfway extended to gather speed in their dive, she looked like a giant reptilian bird of prey. At the last possible second Syraxes fully extended her wings and flapped furiously. The force of her giant wings, flattened the grass below them. Her hind claws extended outwards and they slammed into a section of the horselords where one of the ko was leading.

Momentum she carried from her dive translated into a tremendous amount of force. Several riders and their horses were thrown several feet as if they were weightless. Syraxes singled out a rider and snatched him from his saddle. They were already out of range of the bowmen before an answering volley of arrows could be released in their direction. Syraxes let the mangled body of the ko drop to the ground in answer. 

They repeated the same attack several times. Circling out of range before diving in sharply, always targeting leadership. Between the passes, Jon let Syraxes strike them with quick burst of flame before returning to the high skies. It was mostly done as a fear tactic. She was too young to attack with massive volumes of fire when at speed. To do so would mean she would have to hover above the warriors, well within their range and ability to respond with their arrows.

The sight of fire, especially dragon fire had a profound effect on the horses. Many of them were in such a panic that no even their horse lords were able to calm them. Several hundred horses were breaking formation and scattering into the wind. Their riders were cursing and beating them whips to bring them in line. Some of the horses repaid their riders by bucking them from their backs and then galloping in whatever direction they deemed the safest.

Syraxes carved through the Khalasar like a knife and his plan of targeting the ko seemed to be working. More riders were running from the fight instead of joining. Whether the fear was of the rider or of the horse, it did not matter for the size of the opposition was shrinking rapidly.

Those remaining seemed to catch on to their tactics. Instead of trying to follow Syraxes’ flight pattern they instead tried anticipating her movements, holding off on releasing their volley until she had to spread her wings to avoid slamming into the ground. It was a solid plan, showcasing the ability of the Khal and his ko to think under pressure. Syraxes took a few arrows in her wings and several embedded themselves into her underbelly. If so many of their riders hadn’t broken formation and fled, then they would have been forced to abandon their attack. The wounds were only superficial and Syraxes hardly seemed to notice them.

On another steep pass, Jon noticed a rider who was unmistakably the Khal. What gave him away was the long braid that billowed behind him like a lion’s mane. Several bells were woven into its length. Dothraki males only cut their hair when defeated in battle and the bells were indications of victory. By the length of his hair it looked like the man had never known defeat.  A protective ring of riders formed around him shooting their bows and shaking their arakhs at the sight of them.

Syraxes’ wings beat furiously and they climbed high into the air again. The group of riders who still answered the Khal’s call had been reduced from thousands to around two hundred. Syraxes was only responsible for the deaths of a few dozen men but her methods made it seem like she could kill them all. Shock and awe went a long way.

She spotted the Khal and his blood riders long before Jon could. Her flight pattern shifted to stalk the group and Jon watched almost with pity as the riders tried to form up defensively. Jon took the time to unstrap the short spear he had tucked away in her saddle. It was a little longer than his arm, made of a lightweight, dark wood with a double bladed, steel, leaf tipped point.

They dove to advance behind their riders. Their minds were one at this point, his conscious slipping between dragon and man so easily that Jon could not say whose eyes he was seeing through at any given moment. As her body turned sideways so that the tip of her wing was feet from scraping the ground, Jon lifted the spear in his hand. Taking aim at the unarmored torso of the Khal who was running his horse so hard that a heavy froth was forming at its mouth, Jon threw his spear with all his might.  The throw was off target and instead of sailing twenty feet and burying in the center of the Khal’s back, it struck his shoulder. The force of the blow shifted the Khal’s bodyweight so suddenly that his stallion toppled. Horse and rider tumbled end over end as the two of them flew by.

The sight of their Khal falling from his horse seemed to break the spirit of the remaining riders. Two hundred quickly became fifty as the majority broke from the host and fled. What could have only been the most loyal riders formed a protective stance around the Khal’s fallen form. Syraxes descended upon them with a hunger. Hovering only a few feet from the ground, she released a terrible stream of fire that set scores ablaze.

Jon leapt from her back rolling to reduce the impact on his knees. His Valyrian steel sword was drawn before he reached his feet. Syraxes was at her most vulnerable when she was breathing long streams of fire. Her narrow field of view became its most focused when she was raining fiery death and Jon was ready to defend her from anyone who got the idea to attack her flank.

_Judgement_ didn’t have to wait long to taste the steel of an arakh. The men approached on foot, none of their horses brave enough to charge a dragon. The clash of steel became music to his ears as Jon met the three warriors in battle. A desire to spill blood was coursing through his being, one that Jon couldn’t entirely attribute to Syraxes.

The biggest stood nearly a half a foot taller than him, the smallest had arms nearly as thick as his thighs. They attacked haphazardly, striking one by one instead of as a group where their numbers would give the most advantage.

Jon killed the first man in two moves. Blocking a swipe meant to cleave his head off and responding with a two-handed slash. The speed of his red-grey blade surprised the man, who could only grunt as his stomach contents spilled at his feet. Jon was already spinning to meet the blow of his next attacker. The body of the first crumpled to the ground.

Judgement’s spell forged blade tore chunks out of the soft steel of the curved swords each time they met. It was a hand & half sword, the length of the blade somewhere between a longsword and a true great sword, with a hilt long enough for a two-handed grip. A pommel made of Valyrian steel and carved into the shape of a dragon’s skull balanced the sword for one handed grips. It was double edged, razor sharp with a deep fuller and an elegant taper that made the blade as beautiful as it was lethal.

His two opponents tried to pull back and attack with some measure of cohesion but Jon was too quick to fall between them. His shifting footwork made it difficult for them to attack simultaneously. He used either of them as a body shield for the other. They were bigger than him, heavier muscled with many bells wrapped in their long braids but where they tried to overpower him, he flowed around them like water. Their dance continued for a moment before Jon landed a sweeping blow that took the taller one’s leg off at the knee.

The pulsing of his heartbeat drowned out the sound of the man’s screams. Syraxes’ fury was fueling him as much as his own. She had landed now and was chasing men down on foot to tear them apart with her teeth. The high iron content of her bones made her teeth and horns a dark black and with her bat like winged forelimbs she looked all the more like a creature built to bring death. Two men charged her as she tore the torso off one of their comrades. Her bladed tail whipped outward and tore the two men in half before they could get within ten feet of her.

He and Syraxes fought as one. For every opponent, he killed, she killed five others. His speed was put to the test as two Dothraki swung their swords at him with lightning quickness. He gave them ground as he parried their blows. They fell for his feint and dropped their guards to extend for a killing blow. Jon pivoted on his backfoot and delivered a savage one handed strike. Judgement carved through muscle and bone with ease. There was an eruption of blood as two heads dropped at his feet.

Horsehair breeches and painted vest offered little protection against spell forged steel and dragon fangs. The battle was short, a whirlwind of fire and blood. These final warriors fought desperately until most were reduced to screaming, blackened wrecks of flesh and bone. Once the killing had been done, Syraxes took to the air with a single stroke of her wings. Airborne, she discouraged any riders from rejoining the fight. First by burning a wide circle of fire around his position and then flying off to chase down any she deemed to close.

The ring of fire paired with the charred bodies and red grass of the sea made a hellish scene. A pang of guilt crept through him. Several of the men around were still alive, charred in some places to the bone. They were screaming and moaning horribly or spending their last breaths cursing at him in their harsh native tongue.

Jon moved to each of them, using Judgement to end their suffering. He took no pleasure in the task but was unable to break the stares of the men he was executing. His uncle Eddard’s voice rang in his head ‘If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.’ Some eyes were hard and unrelenting. Many were spilling fresh tears. A few whispered prayers to their horse god and many begged for mercy. Jon swung Judgement, answering each man’s plea or prayer with a swift death. A single pass of his blade, he did not falter.

His stomach rolled though as the sickly-sweet smell of burning horseflesh and man mixed with the acrid smell of burning grass. Smoke plumes rose like shifting black castle walls, all around him was a reminder of the destruction that he unleashed. He allowed Syraxes’ pleasure of the hunt to fight off the pangs of guilt. ‘This is war’ he reminded himself.

Syraxes had no such trouble. She was tearing apart anyone on horseback. Descending from the heavens her silver-gold form gave her the appearance of a vengeful demi-god as she snatched rider and horse from the ground only to drop them moments later. Sunlight pierced her blue, bat-like wings casting a halo of light over the ground under her. Flames spit from her mouth, engulfing a rider entirely, a mix between the color of her body and her wings. She was beauty and destruction personified.

He was on the hunt as well. Staring and accessing each man’s face before swinging his sword to end them. With his time in Essos, Jon was now able to distinguish between the dark faces of the Dothraki. When he had first landed on the eastern continent it had been hard to tell others apart. The brown skin and almond eyes of many of the Essosi had made them seem almost uniform to his eyes.

Now he stared at his victims for long moments, looking for large black eyes and a nose that was crooked from several breaks. None of the faces had the distinctive mole that should have been on the left cheek. The scar that split the brow was absent on a man that possessed all of the other features he sought. He plunged Judgement into the man’s heart in frustration. When he didn’t die quick enough, another swing removed his head.

Time passed as Jon moved between corpses and dying men. After delivering mercy to half a dozen, he became doubtful that Orgo was ever present in this Khalasar. It was likely that the Dothraki had joined a rival or killed several months ago, in one the frequent skirmishes these horse lords found themselves in. Maybe he was one among the tens of thousands scattering into the sea. He could declare himself Khal of this Khalasar’s remnants and Jon would be none the wiser.

These thoughts were running through Jon’s head, poisoning his mood until he came across the unmistakable face of Orgo. The eyes, crooked nose and distinctive scar were there. An ugly mole was confirmation enough but the look of recognition that crossed the man’s face left no doubt.

Orgo stared up at him in defiance, a bloody grin plastered across his face. Jon met the gruesome smile with a grim one of his own. The Dothraki was laid across the flank of dying horse. His left side was a ruin of charred flesh and mangled leather.  His arm had been burnt off at the elbow and his legs didn’t fare much better. His lungs became visible in the exposed gaps of his ribs with every breath he took. A deep shudder shook Orgo’s body as his mouth gurgled blood. ‘He’s laughing’

Orgo spoke in a thickly accented common tongue, his voice still strung despite his condition. “Little Andal.” Orgo taunted.

Jon had grown nearly a head taller and filled out his lanky form with lean muscle since he had last seen Orgo. His dark scale armor was stained with gore. The plate if triangular scales protected his torso and extended down in a flap that protected groin to knee. Armored vambraces with dark, red leather straps protected his wrist and forearms.  Thin black gloves incased his hands. Behind him a dark cape billowed in the wind, held to his body with steel dragon head brooches. His legs were similarly protected by the light plating. Beneath it all he wore a form fitting tunic and breeches made of a breathable fabric so that he wouldn’t overheat under the Essosi sun. It was armor found in the ruins of the freehold, styled in a similar manner to that of Aegon the conqueror. Orgo laughed all the same.

Judgement quivered in his hands as if demanding more blood should be spilled. It reminded him of the legends surrounding the sword Dark Sister which was said to have a taste for blood. If a sword could be said to have influence over its owner, then Judgement would be one of them. With it in his hands, Jon felt ten times the swordsman than he actually was.  Part of him wanted to carve through Orgo with his blade and watch him scream.

_Killing him would merely be a mercy he doesn’t deserve. Let him suffer_. The thought rang like a sharp echo in his head. As if the words were a suggestion of someone else yet spoken with his own voice.

Orgo snarled at his hesitation. “What wrong Andal? She screamed loud and long. Scream for you but you weren’t there.”

Jon answered the taunts by driving the heel of his boots into the ruined legs of the Dothraki. His heel dug deeply into the burnt flesh and Orgo’s screams sounded over the grasslands. “I told you I’d make you suffer. I made you a promise. Your Khal is dead, your Khalasar is broken, and your body will be a feast for the dogs.”

Orgo couldn’t respond until Jon removed his heel. When he did, the Dothraki spit a thick glob of blood and mucus. It was intended to reach him but landed wetly on the Dothraki’s chest. Orgo cursed a long stream in his native tongue. “Fuck you Andal! She tasted good. I had her first and then shared her with my Khal!”

Jon snarled in anger and smacked Orgo with the flat of his blade. Orgo’s head spun sideways from the force of the blow. The horselord coughed out shards of broken teeth. “ _You won’t have an arm in the night lands. You won’t be able to run or hunt through the fields. The Great Stallion will look upon you and know that here’s the man who thought to challenge a dragon_.” He roared in Dothraki.

Through broken teeth and blood Orgo cursed Jon’s retreating form. All manner of insults he directed at Jon. He screamed vivid descriptions of the torture he put Elaerys through. Each word put a dagger through Jon’s heart and reminded him of his failure.

Orgo’s imminent death prevented Jon from turning around and driving Judgement through his heart. The major wounds were cauterized so it would be a long while before the horselord bled out. His left arm was gone and both legs were burnt to a crisp. If infection didn’t take him first, then the feral dogs who were constant followers of Khalasars would. As soon as Syraxes’ fires abated then they would descend on the feast of bodies.

Syraxes descended minutes after he mentally called for her. Sunlight pierced the cerulean membrane of her wings and the glow they casted contrasted sharply with the smoking field they caused. The light from the late afternoon sun made her scales shine like a polished jewel. Yet the crown of horns protecting her wide head and the line of spikes along her spine made it clear that her true purpose was for war and conquest. The larger she grew, the fiercer her appearance became. She had a wing span of over thirty feet and her body was large enough that she could comfortably carry him on her back for long distances. Though he packed light, so she could maintain her agility.

On the ground with the spiked protrusions on her winged forelimbs acting like legs, she towered over him. She had two large horns jutting from the back of her skull and several smaller ones between the two made it seem like she possessed a perpetual crown. The spines on her back could flair when she was agitated, making her large form seem even more lethal. At the tip of her whip like tail, there was a large spade like blade made of bone. When she was younger it had been blunt but now it was a wide and sharp as a dagger.

Large amber eyes appraised his form, likely checking for any wounds. There were none. She could feel his emotions over their bond as well as he could hers. Though Jon doubted she fully understood his emotions. Her emotions were intense and near singular. She felt hunger, anger, happiness and little else. Powerful yet simplistic. The complexity of his own emotional spectrum likely was incomprehensible.

And he was going through an emotional whirlwind. It felt like justice to bring an end to the man who had made the last year of his life filled with doubts about the decisions that had resulted in his companions’ deaths. But he and Syraxes had just ended the lives of over a hundred. They had broken a Khalasar and were responsible for the bloodshed of the power struggle that would follow. If this Khal had a male son, a Khalakka, then that child would be killed. Worse would happen if the Khal had daughters. Was his vengeance worth the pile of bodies left in his wake?

Syraxes nudged him with her massive head. It was as big as his torso now and the movement, no matter how gentle the intent, nearly knocked him over. He smiled at her attempt to cheer him up. Rubbing her snout, he praised her efforts “You did good today Syraxes.” The words were spoken in the common tongue, not High Valyrian but Syraxes purred all the same. It was a soft reverberation resonating out of her chest. There was nothing feline about it but she only made the sound when she was pleased. 

“Let’s get out of here.” Attacking the Khalasar hadn’t been their original intent. They had heard of a rumor of a massive Khalasar on the move before they left for Pentos. In fact, he had promised Jaime and Tyrion that he wouldn’t do exactly that. The promise went out of the window the second he saw the sacking of the village. They would understand he hoped.

Instead of going the more direct route of flying over the disputed lands to the coast, Jon couldn’t resist the possibility of having a chance of finding Orgo. Even at a young age, Syraxes was very fast. He had remembered reading that Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra would regularly race their dragons Caraxes and Syrax from Kingslanding to Dragonstone, a journey that was usually two and a half days at sea took them a matter of hours. On Syraxes’ back the weeks long journey from on foot from Pentos to Dagger lake had taken them a few days. Now they were somewhere in Dothraki sea with the forest of Qohor lying directly to the North.

It would be a long flight to Volantis. He had packed lightly to save weight and maintain Syraxes’ agility in the air. Her saddle was little more than a flank of tanned horse hide with straps for his legs and reins to hold on to. She was growing so fast that it had made little sense to craft something more elaborate. At her current rate, it was likely that the saddle wouldn’t fit her by the time they reached Kingslanding. Open skies and an abundance of prey did wonders for a growing dragon and by the gods did she grow. Her wing span was over thirty feet and nose to tail she was about half that. Every week that passed she seemed to grow noticeably larger. He could remember when she was small enough to sleep on his chest like it was yesterday.

Before he could climb up her lowered wing a motion in his peripheral drew his attention. The man was large at least six and a half feet tall. He was well muscled with a barrel chest marred with moderate burns and walked with a slight limp. His legs didn’t look broken but he was taking care not place pressure on his right. A braid interwoven with the most bells that Jon had ever seen on a horselord ended past his buttocks. In his hand, he held his Akrah, using it as a makeshift cane.

Jon made no motion for his sheathed sword. Syraxes had already turned to regard the Khal. Her lips curled back exposing a row of sharp, black teeth. Flames danced in her maul waiting for the command to incinerate the approaching horse king. The Khal paused at the threat. He fixed an unwavering gaze on the two of them. Jon met the man’s stare with a steely one of his own. If then man wanted to die, then Syraxes would be happy to oblige.

The standoff lasted half a minute. The Khal’s voice was rough and heavily accented “Drogo.” He motioned to himself. “Khal of Khals.”

“Jon” He stated simply and then patted Syraxes neck “Syraxes.”

Drogo nodded slowly. His face was a harsh mask of pain and rage. Sweat dripped down his brow and lose strands from his braid collected around his eyes. His horsehair breeches were stained with blood and mud. In addition to the burns on his chest, bruises were beginning to show all along his body. The largest hinted at a broken rib or two. The dark eyes spoke of his desire to seek vengeance against Jon and Syraxes. For a brief moment, Jon thought the man would be so foolish. Syraxes’ flames would engulf him before he could even lift his sword.

Khal Drogo surprised Jon though, pulling his braid from behind his back instead of raising his arakh. The Horselord locked eyes with Jon as he held the long braid in a tight grip.  There were at least thirty golden bells in his braid. Each one signifying a victory. “Never been cut. Only victories since I was khalakka.” He growled out.

Jon nodded at the significance of the revelation.  Few other Khals, if any, could claim such a feat. _Not since the century of blood has a Khalasar reached the size of Drogo’s. The freehold kept them in line and now they know again what is like to face a dragon in battle. “Zhavvorsa adakhilat ma hrazef.”(A Dragon feeds on horses)_

Drogo let out a gruff laugh. It was one without humor. No smile graced his face. He stared at his braid for a long moment and then in a single movement he swung his arakh and cut his hair to the nape of his neck. The bells jingled as Drogo discarded the braid at Jon’s feet. The Khal didn’t bother to wait for his reaction and instead stalked away. _Would he try and reclaim his Khalasar? Would the Dothraki follow a Khal whose braid has been cut?_

He and Syraxes took to the air a moment later. His long cloaked billowed in the wind. Below them the Dothraki sea looked scared from Syraxes’ fire. Large black patches still burning in a sea of red. He could see thousands of tiny shapes scattering in all directions. Some screamed and ducked at the sight of them, others stood frozen in awe or fear. His dragon let out a powerful roar as if to say _I am the ruler of the skies!_ None could refute her claim.

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	6. Daenerys Targaryen & Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys receives a warning.  
> Jon struggles with the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all of the reviews and kudos that you have all given this story. Both the compliments and criticisms are well appreciated. 
> 
> Hope you all appreciate the double update (two POVs).  
> P.S  
> Thanks GOT88 for all your help!

 

**Daenerys Targaryen**

Daenerys couldn’t decide if the scene unfolding at the Dragonpit was chaos or a display of Tyrion Lannister’s oft mentioned wits. Perhaps the latter as she couldn’t imagine anyone more capable of handling such a diverse, and rather strange group of people. Warlocks from the ancient city of Elyria who claimed to have the ability to _sing_ stone into shape, builders from Braavos who went by the title Engineers, a few pyromancer from the depleted Alchemist’s Guild and several who had no clear purpose but were attracted by the return of dragons.  Included in the latter group were followers of the foreign god R’hllor, mages from as far as Qarth, and the strangest were those who claimed to worship Jon, bestowing the title of _Reclaimer_ on her nephew.  There were over two hundred of them in total. And the sight of so many foreigners who prescribed to strange beliefs, exotic dresses and foreign tongues inspired curiosity and suspicion in the small folk and sent the High Septon into a state of small panic.

Already the man had petitioned her brother on the purpose and necessity of the newcomers and Rhaegar had been locked in discussion with the leader of the faith for most of the morning. Aegon and Rhaenys were dealing with the arrival of the Dornish nobility, a task which she had specifically chosen to not be a part of. She expected her decision to be met by disappointment from her brother but Rhaegar to her surprise, simply smiled and asked her to oversee this operation with Tyrion. Viserys accompanied her and she wanted to ask Visenya to join them but her niece hadn’t joined the family for their morning meal and meeting.

Ser Oswell reported that she wasn’t feeling well, which prompted Lyanna and her mother to go check on Visenya. If Rhaegar was done assuaging the High Septon’s fears, then he would mostly likely be dealing with the nobility. The lords and ladies of Westeros were becoming more persistent with their probing questions. She wondered if her brother regretted announcing a tourney with so much upheaval brought about by Jon’s journey and eventual return but she could understand the logic of the decision.

_The Tourney of Harrenhal might have ignited the flames of the rebellion…but a tourney to celebrate Jon’s return would signal our family’s return to power, and the necessity of remaining loyal to my brother’s crown._ The scene unfolding at these ruins was proof that Jon was committed to restoring the mysticism of their family. Perhaps even elevating it to greater heights than it had ever been before.

“Can you imagine the sight of this, when it is finished, sweet sister? A temple to the gods of Old Valyria in Westeros. A birth place for the future of our house.” Viserys said with awe. They were standing side by side at what used to be an entrance to a dragon’s lair in the cavernous Dragonpit. Over a hundred years ago, the dragon Dreamfyre had brought half of the domed ceiling down in a bid to escape the murderous mob that descended on their ancestor’s dragons. A century of neglect inflicted further damage to the structure but the walls of the great dome still rose high in the sky, blackened by fire with the shattered windows allowing in sunlight and views of the city below.

She couldn’t help but give her brother a sideways glance colored with slight suspicion. Ever since Viserys received his Valyrian steel sword from Jon, he had become Jon’s most vocal supporter. It was a sharp contrast to the Viserys that she knew, who considered everyone of Non-Valyrian blood inferior. Until recently that sentiment extended to her nieces and nephews who had the blood of First Men (Jon and Visenya), Andal and Rhoynar (Aegon and Rhaenys) flowing in their veins in equal concentration to the blood of their Targaryen ancestors. He had once told her that she, along with him, their mother and Rhaegar were the only true dragons. _I am glad my mother and Rhaegar had the sense to refuse Viserys’ demand for my hand._ She knew of their family’s history and always thought it likely that she might marry Aegon or Jon but the thought of being tied to Viserys for the rest of her life made her shudder. _At least Quentyn doesn’t have Viserys’ arrogance_. _Otherwise I would have to strangle him in his sleep._ A small consolation.

“It certainly is something Viserys.” She replied. _Even in ruin, this building inspires awe… only beast of incredible size could prompt the construction of this monstrous building. Our legacy is undeniable here._

All of them had been brought to this pit when they were children. Rhaegar wanted them to remember their legacy. Even with the bones in the keep, it was hard to think of the dragons as once living creatures. They seemed ancient, remnants of a time long since passed and never to come again. But the Dragonpit gave the memory of dragons additional legitimacy. It was a hulking skeleton, a giant hole in the roof and scorched, skeletal walls. There were still broken bones and twisted weapons from the attackers scattered throughout the basin of the pit. The stone floors were cracked with deep fissures made from sharp claws. If you lifted the stones you might even find blood stains and crushed skulls. They all were proof that the city had risen to destroy the creatures that made her family conquerors.

When she was a girl she had raged against Queen Rhaenyra and her cowardice of not aiding the dragons. _If the Queen had taken Syrax to the skies and defended the other dragons, then we might still have dragons of our own._ An afterthought crossed her mind. _Then Jon and I might have been wed._ While the ruins inspired awe, they also left her with sadness as well.

Jon was a different story. He was most inspired by the Targaryens who came after the death of dragons, none more so than Daeron I. _He didn’t need a dragon to conquer Dorne. That makes him as formidable as Aegon the Conqueror._ A young, grey eyed, beautiful boy had once told her with a smile.

She remembered the exact words of her response. _A dragon of his own would have let him keep Dorne for more than a summer._ Jon just laughed and then planted a kiss on her lips. _You’re a dragon Dany,_ he whispered.

The thoughts filled her with guilt. _But I’m not … not a true dragon! A dragon would have raged against their elder brother even if he was king. A dragon would have found a way to delay her marriage until Jon came back._

“How did all of these people learn of Jon and his dragon while we only heard the news from Sam.” She asked Tyrion who had come to stand beside her and Viserys on their perch.

The short man was dressed in the red and black colors of House Targaryen with a solid brooch shaped like the snarling Lion of Casterly Rock. His neatly groomed beard balanced his jutting forehead, while he would never be considered handsome, the clothing and the authority he wielded lent a sense of majesty to his person.

_Perhaps after the Old Lion dies, the short one will take his place as hand._ The thought brought a smile to her face. Tywin would roll over in his grave.

“Word from the east travels slowly to the west, princess. There are no Maesters, nor their ravens in Essos. News travels by horseback and ships, message lines the King might not have access to.” Tyrion said in reply.

“Still, we should have heard rumors of Jon or his dragon, for years we didn’t know if you all were dead or alive.” That was her greatest frustration. Jon had asked for her hand in marriage in Aegon’s Garden at Dragonstone and then when they returned to King’s Landing went to ask his parents for their approval. In a few short weeks, she was sent back to Dragonstone with her mother and Jon was sent to Casterly Rock to meet Myrcella Tully. Viserys’ earlier blunder had backfired when she visted Rhae and Aegon in Dorne, Quentyn had laid eyes on her and Rhaegar saw no reason to refuse the proposal. Jon’s departure to Essos was soon after. Only two letters had been sent by Jon to their family. Letters that said nothing of his plans to go to Valyria. _You left me Jon_

“We were discrete at first. Braavos and Pentos were the last stops on our Journey. Jon and Syraxes remained out of sight until they needed to be seen.” She nodded at his words, wiping the sweat from her brow. Briefly she regretted her choice of wearing her riding gear instead of the light Dornish dresses Rhae had gifted her. The arrival of her husband and his family was a stark reminder of the lack of control that she had in her life. All the responsibilities that Rhaegar had been happy to give her on her return to the capital had made her situation seem distant. Quentyn remained in Dorne to squire for his uncle. They were married, marriage consummated on their wedding night and so she saw no reason for them to remain together. Without the eyes of their witnesses to their consummation, she would have never let Quentyn bed her but Prince Doran insisted and so she endured. Wearing clothes unfit to greet any Noble, let alone the family of the Prince of Dorne was a small but satisfying rebellion. It gave her a sense of victory that superseded her discomfort from the heat.

“Still, sailors hear everything and Kings Landing is a port city. There was no warning of your return until Sam’s letter.” She protested.

“The Master of Whispers must be neglecting his duties. Rumors from sailors and the tidings of the east do fall under his jurisdiction.” Tyrion’s tone was knowing.

_Connington do you really hate Jon enough that you wouldn’t investigate?_ “Connington is a loyal man, I don’t think he would withhold news from my brother.” _And Rhaegar wouldn’t withhold news of Jon from me._ The thoughts worked to stamp down the seed of doubt that sprouted in her mind.

“There is no doubt Jon Connignton _loves_ the King, but do you think that sentiment extends to his second son? I imagine with the lack of information; your brother was slowly accepting Jon might be lost for good. I wouldn’t put it past his friend to ignore outlandish rumors, to save the King and his family the inevitable grief if those reports turned out to be false.”

She frowned but accepted Tyrion’s logic. Connington was her brother’s biggest supporter, and before he assumed his council position, Jon Connington served as Regent in the Stormlands until Renly reached the age of majority. That loyalty didn’t extend to Lyanna and her son though. it was a well-known _secret_ of the court, of the friction between Lyanna and the Griffin.

“Why are they all here? Most have nothing to do with the construction, so what is their purpose?”

Viserys answered before Tyrion could. “Dragons are power sister. These people are the moths attracted to the flames.”

“Viserys is right.” Tyrion said with some hesitation.  Too much praise was likely to go to her brother’s head. “Every mage that we have come across has reported feeling more powerful nearest to Syraxes. It is natural for many to want to be nearest to this new source of magical power.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” There was trepidation in her voice. Her lessons with Grand Maester Marwyn and her tutors had given her a healthy aversion to magic. While his eccentrics and fondness for the higher mysteries had earned Grand Maester Marwyn the title of, Marwyn the Mage in Oldtown, even he spoke of treading carefully around magic users. _Magic has a cost and sorcerers are often happy to let others pay the toll._ His words rang in her head. 

Tyrion gave her a sideways look. “Don’t worry these aren’t the human sacrifice, baby eating, eunuch creating types. Syraxes burned those before they could even offer. Jon not only wants to bring Dragons back but also thinks magic has a useful role.”

“Is this from his experiences in Valyria?” She couldn’t help but asking with some suspicion. Jon was creating a lot of change and expecting things to be accepted without question. _The realm might celebrate the return of dragons, or be too fearful to make much of a protest but magic will always be regarded with suspicion._

“We learned a lot in Valyria. Magic was more prominent there than anywhere west of Qarth, perhaps only the Rhoynar could challenge them but records of their civilization are nearly as hard to obtain as that of the Valyrians. Some magic can make the world a much better place, and some is best left in the dark. All who achieved passage on our ships know the penalty of practicing the latter. “

A small reassurance. Tyrion had been appointed to oversee the construction of the new temple, a position that would keep him in King’s Landing for the better part of the decade. Rhaegar had placed her in charge of finding living spaces for the newcomers. Apartments would eventually be built in the area surrounding the new temple, but for now they would have to reside among the rest of the city’s inhabitants.  Keeping the citizens of King’s Landing calm was her chief responsibility.

 “The Valyrians had more slaves than anyone else, I can hardly imagine they took exception to dark magic.”

“True.” Tyrion admitted. He continued, “The Valyrians learned from the Ghiscari and took the defeated as their slaves and later bred them. A stain on their legacy, none would argue that. They were also the foremost center of knowledge for eons, despite being notoriously tight-lipped of their most enticing secrets. They surpassed Old Ghis, The Kingdom of Sarnor and the Rhoynar. Travelers from as far as Yi Ti would come to Valyria to discover the secrets that only the Valyrians knew about our world. Early on the Valyrians might have placed little regulation on what could be studied and the methodology behind the practices but there is a reason why Asshai and Asshai alone maintained the tile of ‘Nothing is forbidden’.”

“Still, a new temple to Valyria, dragons and warlocks in a city that remembers wildfire is going to cause tension.” Even after four years of being apart, she trusted Jon but her time among the people gave her insight on how quickly their opinions could change. _They love us now but tomorrow they could be calling for our heads._ Her history lessons showed that the small folk could be appeased but never fully sated.

“The populace will always fear what they don’t understand. Which is a great many things these days. We must own the narrative, it is the lords that prey on their fears and turn them into actions. “Tyrion’s voice was sagely yet she couldn’t help but feel he was being patronizing.

“That is easier said than done, Lord Lannister. You’re father for example, doesn’t seem enthused about this venture.” She motioned to the temple around them. As hand of the King, it should have been Tywin’s responsibility to oversee such a large construction project. However, Jon entrusted Tyrion with the completion of his vision and Gerion Lannister vocalized his support of his nephew leading the project. Tywin was a hard man to read, his face often a mask of stoicism but his eyes betrayed his calculating nature. While it was rare to ever see Tywin show a hint of anger, a mention of his youngest son could be trusted to give away the slightest sign of distaste. _How can a father hate his own son so much?_

“My father doesn’t enjoy anything he can’t stamp our family name on or can’t benefit from. This temple is a reminder of Targaryen power. Perhaps, the Maesters will be kind and remember the Lannisters who helped build it but most of the praise will go to your nephew.” His voice didn’t betray any jealously that she could detect. She tried assuring him regardless.

“Jon will make sure that you all receive your due credit.” It was true. The Jon she knew was humble to a fault. Her nephew wouldn’t forget those who helped him.

Tyrion smiled at her efforts. “I have no doubts about Jon’s honor, just acknowledging how history tends to be romanticized to promote a narrative. Tell me what makes a greater tale? The conquering Prince who with his faithful Kingsguard returns from the ruins of Valyria with secret treasures, and on the back of a dragon, and then single handedly raises a new temple devoted to the lost arts, or the Imp of Casterly Rock aiding him in building this wondrous structure? Those who play supporting roles in great events often find their roles reduced when the Maesters write their history books. It’s why Aegon is known as ‘The Conqueror’ and his wives are only remembered as his ‘wives’. Not conquerors themselves, even if each was as essential to the formation of the seven Kingdoms as Aegon. If beautiful warrior queens were marginalized in the annals of history, how do you think a dwarf will be remembered?”

Her brow furrowed. “Their names and deeds are remembered. They have hills in the city named after them, just like Aegon. If you won’t, I’m sure Jon would agree to put a statue of you right in front of the temple so none would forget your name.”

“I would hate to scare the populace even more so.” He japed, she couldn’t help but laugh even if the humor was in poor taste. “Still, it is not if your name is remembered, it is how so. Visenya was a fierce warrior, mother and entrusted to run the city while Aegon flew to each Kingdom and improved relations with their lieges. Now she is remembered as a cruel, cold woman who was banished by her husband. How history remembers you is subtle but powerful. It is why Joffrey wears the snarling lion alongside the leaping trout. It is why my sister is still Cersei Lannister, rather than Cersei Tully. And exactly the reason why my Father and Cersei will throw Myrcella at Jon so they can wrap their children in Lannister Crimson alongside Black and Red.” The look he threw her gave no doubt that he caught the way she stiffened at his words.

Viserys wisely left to go survey worksite. She waited till he disappeared behind a bend before she replied. “They would make a pretty pair.” She acquiesced. _What game are you playing Tyrion?_

He continued, a small smile on his lips. “Very pretty. My niece has all of her mother’s beauty with none of her shortcomings, sweet, and demure. She would make a dutiful wife who would do her best to make her husband happy.”

“And why tell me this Lord Tyrion?” She couldn’t keep the edge from her voice. _If he hopes to get a rise out of me then he’ll be disappointed. I know how to play the game._

“A word of warning if you will.” Her eyes narrowed and she wheeled on him but his face held no malice. The look he gave her lent importance to his advice.

“I appreciate your words but they aren’t necessary. Jon and I-“She began. Tyrion interrupted.

“They aren’t just for you. Jon needs to heed them as well.”

“And why would Jon need your warning? What does he intend to do?” She tried keeping her voice even but the flutter of her heart was reflected in her voice. She stuttered over the words and a blush grew on her cheeks.

“Have you ever wondered why your brother pursued Lyanna Stark? Some would argue that it was her beauty, but my sister was just as beautiful. Some would say it was that he needed more children but there were plenty of highborn maidens at Harrenhall who weren’t already betrothed to a Lord Paramount. An alliance with the North? Why not an alliance with the richer, closer Westerlands? With a marriage to Cersei, Rhaegar ties the richest and most ambitious man in the Seven Kingdoms to him by blood. Why then? What would you say?” The stare of the Dwarf’s mismatched eyes was unnerving. As if they were peering into her soul and searching for the answers that had not yet left her lips.

“Love.” She added simply. _The way my brother stares at his queen is undeniable. A love to fight for._

Tyrion nodded. His smile was somber. “Exactly. We saw what a wise King would do for love and Jon is his father’s son.”

Those words drove a spike into her heart and the warmth that grew in her at the mention of her childhood love grew cold. “He should have taken me with him.”

“Perhaps.” Tyrion’s eyes turned pensive. “But if we lost you, I fear the Jon we know, would be gone for good.”

**Jon**

Syraxes flew southbound for hours, until the sun hung low in the sky. They were still firmly in the Dothraki Sea so there were little breaks in the grasslands. They landed on a knoll that gave an elevated view for leagues in all directions. While they had broken the largest Khalasar of this time, Jon was wary of other Khalasars getting the drop on them while Syraxes was grounded. Here at least, they would have some warning.

The sea had changed from a maroon red to a vibrant orange. Light from the setting sun made their surroundings glow with a golden hue. The air had yet to cool so he unclasped his cloak and laid it on the ground to use as bedding. Syraxes had feasted on enough horses and men in their battle so she was in no mood to hunt. Jon curled up next to her and she placed a wing over him for cover. The strain from the battle, seemed to hit him all at once and he was asleep seconds after he laid down.

He woke with eyes that weren’t his own but were familiar nonetheless. The smells were different than those on the grasslands, the sweet smell of perfume and soap, the burning smell of a candle. The ground beneath his paws was soft and comfortable, the rug frayed where he ran his claws over it. He put his front paws forward and arched his back in a stretch.

The room was lit by a dull candle that bathed its surroundings in a flickering light. Though to his wolf eyes, the light was akin to a dying sun. By the light source, was a sliver haired girl who fell asleep with her head in a book. A large stack sat on her desk. _Visenya_.

She was seated at her round desk. The candle far enough away from her, that the tips of her hair weren’t a risk. Dressed for sleeping, she wore a white shift, her legs and feet were bare. He meant to tsk-tsk, but it came out as a whine instead. He pressed his muzzle into her side, she woke slowly, lifting her head and rubbing the sleep from her eye.

He was taken back by her beauty. The girl he had left had been skinny with knobby knees, whose front teeth had yet to grow in. Now she was a beauty of the North and Old Valyria. Grey eyes like a storm and silver the color of moonlight. The sight warmed his heart. It had been far too long.

“Thanks Ghost” Visenya whispered, her voice still heavy with sleep. She rose and stretched, inadvertently showing him how her body had changed as well as the candlelight made her sheer shift nearly invisible. He guided her to her bed, letting her rest against him when she stumbled, her balance unfound with exhaustion. She stared at him once she was under the covers. “I miss you Jon.” He waited till her eyes closed and breathing evened out before leaving her chambers. _I miss you too Senya._

He padded out of the room and was content to let Ghost lead the way as they shared vision. Halls that he hadn’t seen in years maintained familiarity and he had an idea of where Ghost was leading him. In the hall he passed Ser Oswell Whent who brushed a hand against his fur as they went by.

His four long legs carried him through the halls of the holdfast swiftly, paws making no sound on the stone. The moon was high in the sky as he passed over the drawbridge that limited access to the holdfast. Ghost was so silent that the guards barely turned their heads at the passing of a horse sized direwolf.

With the nose of his wolf, smell guided his way as much as vision. The stink of sweat as he passed the barracks on the way up the serpentine steps. Iron and soot reached his nose as he made a loop around the armory. The smell of meat and mead from tonight’s dinner was more distant but drifted in the air due to the light wind, it made his belly rumble. Finally, the smells of holy oils assaulted his nose as passed the sept to make way towards the Godswood.

All smells, other than wood, Earth and moss dropped away as he was enveloped by the woods. There was an odd sense of serenity beneath these trees. They didn’t convey the timeless nature of Winterfell’s Godswood but it was a place of tranquility in the Red Keep that was anything but tranquil.

In the center of the woods stood the heart tree. It was a massive oak with many twisting branches that formed a large canopy. In front of the tree, standing on the soft grass and a bed of fallen leaves was a woman enveloped in the light of the moon. Her silver hair and pale skin had an ethereal glow. She was turned towards the tree, her back towards him. He could see her curvaceous form through her dress. _Daenerys._

As if she heard his silent thoughts Daenerys turned.   Briefly he thought that she had spotted his four legged form, but the canopy of leaves he was under was thick enough that the light of the moon could not pierce, his pure white fur obscured by darkness. The sight of her beautiful face, her fair skin, full lips, framed by a curtain of silver hair broke his connection to ghost; the joy of seeing his childhood love was eclipsed by the sadness that the memories her image brought to his mind.

Elaerys had been beautiful as well but her hair was a golden hue instead of the silver blonde of his aunt and sister. She had been taller than him until the last of their days together, with a demanding personality that annoyed him to no end in the beginning. He had first caught sight of her on the long bridge that connected the eastern and western halves of Volantis. Surrounded by armed slave guards, in a palanquin with shutters that were nearly sheer due to the heat, she looked every bit the daughter of Volantene nobility. Later he had spoken to her in one of the many great libraries housed in the heart of Volantis, behind the city’s ancient black walls of fused dragonstone, built by the ancient stonesingers of Old Valyria.

In those days, he and Sam went by aliases and to reside behind the black walls, you needed the permission of one of the powerful families of the Old Blood, those who could trace their lineage back to the days of the Freehold. It was one of the many ways Volantis segregated its people by circumstances of birth. The slaves were marked by face tattoos which gave identification of their trade: squares of motley for fools and jesters, flies on the cheek for those who collected horse dung, jade green stripes for their slave soldiers and a host of other markings. While he and Sam bore no markings, they also did not have the features of the old blood, which marked them as commoners to the eyes of many. Elaerys who belonged to the powerful family Horonno, should have paid them little attention. Instead she was fascinated by their cover story (traveling scribe for Sam and sellsword for himself) and even more so by their reading material.  If he had inherited his father’s coloring then their ruse would have been discovered in a few moments of meeting, for Elaerys quickly identified their Westerosi accents.

Perhaps if he had been more forceful with her when they found her hiding on their ship, days after leaving port, then she would still be alive. If he hadn’t convinced Jaime to let her stay with them then she would be in Lys, married to the son of a magister. But the words of a woman wanting to escape an unwanted marriage pulled strings close to his heart. He hadn’t meant to fall for her. The words he spoke to Daenerys and the feelings he had for his aunt hadn’t dulled with time but Elaerys’ grew on him all the same.

Her mischievous smile when she played a prank on the crew, and most often himself. The wind blowing through her hair as she stood on the prow of their ship. Her slender form, bared to him as she snuck into his quarters. The feel of her cold, lifeless fingers in his hands. The sight of her body, brutalized by countless rapes and beatings. The feel of judgement in his hands as it sank into the flesh of her murderers. His laughter as he tore men apart. The taste of the Khal’s blood as Ghost tore the man’s throat out. The horror on the faces of his companions as he reveled in his vengeance.

The visions sent him into a dark spiral, and the dreams of Elaerys were replaced by his familiar hauntings. The sight of tall, topless towers made of fused black dragonstone filled him with a sense of dread. He could feel the heat of the sun on his face, the warmth of the Lands of the Long Summer penetrated his armor, causing him to break out into a cold sweat. All around him the citizens of Valyria moved about their day, blonde to silver hair abounded. The men wore light tunics and pants, while the women wore dresses that would make even the Dornish blush.

The beauty of the freehold was breathtaking and alien. Every inch of the buildings were expertly carved. The roads a deep black without a single crack or break, the walls of the towers and palaces elaborately shaped. Some walls were sung into the shape of dragon wings like his family’s ancestral fortress, others made to look like the heads and limbs of forgotten beasts. Some towers were adorned with glowing spheres of crystal which gave variety to the black and dark hues of the buildings.

The city was far more populated than Kings Landing but it held none of the stench that usually permeated the air of large cities. Only the section of city behind the black walls of Volantis could compare to the majesty of Old Valyria, yet even the pride of the Old Blood paled to bring the same sense of wonder that Valyria had in abundance. Resting high on the top of towers or flying above the city were dragons. Dozens of them from what he could see.

Some were so large that they could challenge Balerion at his zenith. When they took to the sky the ground shook from their weight and the sky cracked like thunder when they flapped their wings. Others were smaller and swift, diving through the air with blonde riders on their back. Their scales formed a full spectrum of colors and were a breathtaking sight as the sunlight hit them.

This time he was on a high bridge connecting two towers. For every citizen, there were five slaves or guest to the Freehold. The slaves regardless of their profession wore collars engraved with insignias that denoted their ownership. 

It brought a grimace to his face to see the collars. _So it is near the end then._ Sometimes he was brought back early in history, when the architecture was simpler, the dragons less numerous and rarest, when the slaves were absent. His time always ended the same though, even if a thousand lifetimes had to pass in an instant.

There was a deep rumble in the earth that began as a small tremble but quickly grew until it seemed like reality itself was shaking. Screams of the citizens quickly became deafening as crevasses opened, swallowing towers, temples and men alike.

On his bridge the crowd shoved each other to whichever direction they deemed the safest. Another rumble from the earth drove those standing to the ground. Still they crawled over each other in a mass exodus. Despite seeing a variety of the same sight hundreds of times, Jon felt panic seize his heart all the same. He crawled over others in a panic as well, grunting as an elbow hit his nose. The cries of a little girl reached his ears. He could only watch helplessly as her small body was trampled.

The roars of dragons pierced the air, so many of them in unison made the sound so loud that his eardrums split. The most loyal, sensing the distress of their riders dove amongst the chaos to find them. Those with riders took to the sky or circled above in disbelief.

Jon found his footing again, wincing as his hand was crushed by a boot. He watched as a column of molten rock and shadow rose into the sky, engulfing a rider and dragon entirely. More veins opened in the ground and incinerated the dragons in the air. The heat was so intense that one nearly a mile away seared his skin. The dragons sensing the danger abandoned their searches or perches and took to the high skies with in a panicked fury.

More vents opened shooting molten rock thousands of feet into the air. The columns of fire and shadow took the form of clawed hands that snatched dragons from the air like they were insects. A large dragon with a wings that spanned hundreds of feet, roared in fury as it was hit by a column. It seemed to resist the heat, spewing white fire in answer that drove back the superheated rock and shadow. More columns emerged from the ground, burning the wings off of the majestic beast before pulling it into the bowels of the earth. The inevitability of their death froze many on his bridge. They watched in horrified silence as the dragons were obliterated.

A dragon larger than Syraxes but small compared to the beasts of old flew swifter than an arrow, on its back a female rider clutched her chains tightly, her legs were strapped into her dragon’s saddle. She wore dazzling red armor that clashed with her dragon’s green scales. Her cloak billowed in the wind.  Dragon and rider rolled and banked through the air, using the buildings as cover as they dodged the clawed vents of heat and smoke with an aerial mastery that Jon and Syraxes couldn’t match.

The green dragon pulled its wings close to its body and rolled through the air as two columns converged to engulf them. They dove between collapsing towers and the bridge he was on, emerging on the other side with a powerful snap of the dragon’s wings.

Rider and dragon fought in the sky, using flame and agility to avoid being engulfed. He watched the rider draw a sword so bright that the light it cast seemed like a second sun, driving back the shadows as her dragon breathed flames the color of wildfire. The bridge under Jon rolled as another rumble shook the earth, there was a crack that traveled up the connecting towers, and its top half snapped off, falling hundreds of feet to crash into the bridge. Hundreds were crushed in a single instant and the entire structure fell. A scream left Jon’s lips as he plunged along with hundreds. The heat from the bowels of the earth burned his back even before he touched the ground. The last thing he saw before his world went black was a monstrous entity of fire and shadow that wrought vengeance on the greatest civilization to have ever been. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys is pretty difficult to write. I hope she's done justice in this chapter.


	7. The Machinations of a King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support all of you. Hope you enjoy the (relatively) quick update.
> 
> Special thanks to Haermonys again with these amazing edits. Picture is Rhaegar and Lyanna.

**Rhaegar Targaryen**

Rhaegar woke to the sounds of Lyanna’s soft snores and a tendril of light that peaked through a gap in their thin curtains to rest on his cheek. The sheets of their marriage bed were in a state of disarray, stained from their sweat and love making. His queen’s back was to him, her body bare and enticing. She insisted on sleeping nude with only a sheet for covering, even though she tossed and turned at night and almost inevitably kicked the sheets away. Lyanna never felt cold in the south, even during the dead of winter but she had little tolerance for the heat. The long summer had made her restless and he had to exhaust her each night so that she could find rest. While his queen’s wildness may have been tempered by time and motherhood, her passion had only increased with age.

He traced a hand down her spine, delighted by the way her body felt beneath his hand. His queen was unconventional, she loved riding her horse or even training with sword when she could find time away from the responsibilities of the court. Her activeness was displayed by her body. Age had widened her hips and plumped her ass, motherhood had made her breasts fill his large hands, but she was muscled everywhere else. The very sight of her caused his cock to stiffen and he couldn’t help but kiss her neck. She stirred when his tongue traced the rim of her ear.

He gripped her hip possessively, hissing when the arching of her back pressed her backside against his length. A moan escaped her lips when he gripped her breast, using it as a handhold to pull her against him, until their bodies were molded together. His queen responded to his fevered kisses with lazy ones of her own, her lips were still swollen from last night’s passions.

At night, his queen was often wild, as likely to pin him to the bed as he would her, but in the morn, while still waking from sleep, she was sweet and submissive, either needing to be taken slowly or dominated entirely. Today, he preferred the latter. By the sound of her moans, it seemed that she did as well.

Lyanna gasped as he kissed across her collarbone. Instead of continuing on to her breast like he did last night, he turned her over so she laid on her stomach. Her head turned to the side, resting on her pillow. He traced her spine with his lips while his hands ran across the smooth skin of her sides. Her back was lined with muscle and a few scars. He could find each of them by memory.

“On your knees.” He commanded, voice rough from sleep. His she-wolf complied with his command, lifting her butt in the air and spreading her legs until her center was bared to him. She was already glistening.

“Rhaegar…” She whispered. Her voice was made husky by sleep and desire. Her eyes were still heavy lidded but widening with each passing moment. The wolf’s blood was awakening.

He pressed his face between her cheeks, spreading them with his hands. The taste of her was intoxicating and he nearly lost himself in her scent. They had bathed before they went to bed so he had no qualms about tracing her rosebud with his tongue. Lyanna bucked against his face so hard, that he was nearly thrown backwards.

“Rhaegar…fuck me please. I need it.” Lyanna begged.

He groaned in delight but didn’t comply immediately, his thirst of her wasn’t yet sated. He drank from her like a man who had found water in the Dornish desert. His tongue swept over her clit before burying between her lips. His hands held her hips in a firm grip as she squirmed under his ministrations. He brought her close to climax by sliding his index finger into her while his thumb played with her clit and his tongue delved into her rosebud. Before she could peak he pulled away from her, only to slide his cock into her before she could beg him again. They joined together in one motion, her hips snapped backwards to him to the root. Her screams were loud and obscene and he wanted to hear more of them.

His hand twisted in her hair pulling it so that her neck and back arched in answer. Lyanna increased the tempo of her hips and their chamber filled with the sounds of the slaps of his hips against her ass. She was trying to make him loose first, as she knew what taking her in this way did to him. He abandoned his grip of her hair and pressed her upper body into the bed.   

Lyanna dropped to one elbow, her fingers briefly played with his sack before they rubbed the nub above her center. He slowed his thrusts, letting her focus on both tempos. Lyanna didn’t last long, crying out as her orgasm overtook her.

Rhaegar rolled his hips, only giving Lyanna a few inches, knowing the tease would draw out her pleasure. The bedding did little to muffle her cries and he knew that anyone outside of their door had in all likelihood heard her screams. It was minutes before she came down from her high and he increased his pace after her hips met the bed once more.

She pulled her knee up, the other leg straight, her torso twisted as she stared at him. He growled at the sight of her. The feel of her was too much. He couldn’t decide where to put his hands. Her breasts looked enticing, swaying in response to their motions, but, he couldn’t maintain his balance if he grabbed them. Her ass looked incredible too but he settled for a slap that turned her globes pink. One hand gripped her hips, the other pulled at the bedsheet. Lyanna’s whining encouraged him onward.

“Cum in me, my King.” Her voice was loud, breathless and wanton. Sweat made her back glisten.

‘Fuck.” He exclaimed, burying himself into her until he could feel the end of her cunt. His seed shot out with such intensity that there were black spots in his vision.

Lyanna hummed in contentment. Her face was already back to the pillow. The sun had already peaked over the horizon and he needed to be up and about ten minutes ago.

He pulled out of her and then pull her back to his chest so they were spooning. _Rest me sweet._ “I love you.” He whispered. She hummed an agreement, eyes already closed. He held her long after she fell back asleep. His hand traced her belly, still flat after birthing two children. He hoped that he could feel it swell once again.

Jon’s birth had almost taken Lyanna from him. The Maester at Starfall had been their savior. So much so, that Lyanna had given Jaehaerys the nickname of Jon after the Maestar’s own name. Visenya was their miracle child. In more ways than one.

At first, he had thought that he was the promised prince, the one who would lead the realm into the light. A twelve-year-old version of himself had been convinced by dreams that foretold of a great calamity to come and so he trained at arms to be the warrior that the realm would need, while patiently waiting for the birth of his sisters who he would wed when they came of age. Alas, only one of the two promised sisters came and Daenerys had been born long after he had married Elia and fallen in love with Lyanna and by then he had realized that the prophecy was not about him but his children. For the longest time, he believed that Aegon was the promised prince. _The comet on the day of his birth…the Valyrian features, his strength as a child._ All of them were misleading signs.

His third child’s sex had planted doubts into his mind. But he should have had the foresight to look past that. Jon being a powerful warg, like all of his stark cousins, the color of his direwolf which was the same as that of the Weirwood trees and finally his sense of duty and honor, present in enormous quantities at a young age. He had thought that all these traits would make Jon an excellent hand, loyal to his brother’s crown. Marrying Jon to Dany had made sense then, it would have kept their Valyrian bloodline intact.

Lyanna had wisely pointed out that isolating themselves in non-political marriages wasn’t smart at all. Tywin and the Tyrells had both been vying for royal betrothals for their progeny. Both served him loyally in the years after the rebellion, and wouldn’t be easily placated if they were denied. So he had listened to his queen and set aside his plans to fulfill prophecy in favor of practicality. 

Jon’s sudden departure to Essos had rocked their family. Lyanna blamed herself, his children were distraught and in an attempt to gain some clarity, he returned to his practice of drinking ‘The Shade of the Evening’ and spoonfuls of Weirwood paste after a long hiatus of decade and a half. It was a habit that he had long abandoned, one that only his best friend and sworn sword Ser Arthur and his co-conspirator Grand Maester Marwyn knew that he prescribed too. Arthur had been a sceptic but his victory on the Trident was proof enough that the visions he saw, held weight in the world.

The warlocks of Qarth drank the Shade of the Evening until their lips stained blue and their insides rotted but their visions were only occasionally fruitful. It was rumored that the three thousand Unsullied who held the city against the waves of Dothraki hordes during the century of blood had only been purchased after a warlock predicted the attack by the hordes. Weirwood paste had been used by the greenseers of the Children of the Forest and later by those of the First-men. He had found no records of the two ever being used in combination but his experiment of their combined usage had allowed him to see the formations of Ned Stark’s and Robert Baratheon’s armies on the Trident, and told him of his fate should he have met an unbloodied Robert Baratheon in single combat.

Ned was an excellent strategist and Robert had been a formidable battle commander but Rhaegar had known of each charge, flank, and volley of arrows along with the position of their men before they could even give out the orders. His spearmen countered their heavy horse, archers bled their cavalry and his Knights cut through the infantry on the flanks. The final nail in the coffin of the rebel’s cause had been the trap that he had laid for the Stag consumed by anger. Robert charged headlong into the gauntlet of spear and bowmen Rhaegar had placed before himself on the trident. The stag’s personal guard payed for his brashness when a storm of bolts and a fist of spears cut them down. By the time he and Robert met in single combat, the man had a bolt in his thigh, his horse was dead and he was exhausted from swinging his massive Warhammer.

Rhaegar in comparison was fresh, leading from the rear instead of on the front lines like he had originally intended. It was no contest. A deep cut to the shoulder ended Robert’s ability to fight, though not his will. By then with Robert in his custody, it had been simple to get Ned to bend the knee. The announcement of his marriage to Lyanna had convinced his good-brother to join him to remove his father from the throne.

Dreams and prophecy had saved his crown, his children and they would allow him to save the realm as well.

He dressed quickly, pulling on the silken black and red garments of his house. His shoulder length hair was messy, leaving no doubt as to what activities he was engaged in this morning.  Before he left the room, he placed a kiss on his wife’s forehead and covered her nude form with their sheets.

Samwell Tarly and Ser Arthur were outside in the hall. The younger man, who had been conscripted to be his Paige, had his face painted bright red in embarrassment. Sam could barely meet his eyes.

“Have fun?” Ser Arthur asked with a cheeky smile. The Sword of the Mourning was armored in the white enameled armor of the Kingsguard.  He was taller than Rhaegar, standing at a six feet four inches, the Knight looked even more formidable than when he was first anointed his white cloak. It was as if time and age had stood still for the brown haired Knight. His face was handsome with a strong jawline that fit his broad shouldered frame.

The three of them made their way across the drawbridge connecting Maegor’s holdfast to the rest of the keep. The small council chamber, was on the far side of the north west end of the castle. It would have been simpler to hold the meetings in his solar but Rhaegar liked walking the grounds, the action helped clear his mind so he could deal with the politics of the realm.

“News, Samwell?” The Tarly heir’s intelligence was plain to see and the Lannister’s had vouched for his competence during their journey. Randall Tarly, a man who had been utterly unimpressed with his eldest son before his sudden departure with Jon, was stunned by Sam’s weight loss and journey back to Valyria. These developments were enough for the critical father to look at Sam in a new light. Rhaegar sought to improve the young man’s standing further by recruiting the boy as his personal Paige.

Those duties included receiving letters from the rookery, relaying information that the Small Council might discuss at their next meeting, handling Rhaegar’s schedule and taking notes of any important information that was discussed in both the council meetings and in their daily conversations at court. Sam might have been shy to a fault but the boy had a brilliant mind and didn’t miss many details. His loyalty was proven during Jon’s journey. When he ascended to the position of Lord of his house, he would make a fine addition to the court.

“Yes, your grace. The Tyrells and Hightowers are expected to arrive this morning, as well as the Dornish.” Samwell answered.

“And the Starks?” Rhaegar asked. His queen’s family would be the last of the paramount families to arrive due to the sheer distance of their travel. They were also the ones that he was most anticipating to meet. Seeing Ned’s face, once he caught sight of Jon on Syraxes would be worth all of the gold in Casterly Rock.

Relations between his good-family were the most complicated as well. Ned had not been the greatest supporter of Rhaegar after the rebellion. Understandable, Robert and most of his sworn knights had been banished to the wall, both the Baratheons and Tullys were stripped of much of their lands but retained their titles as Lord Paramounts of their regions. The Starks and the Arryns were the only major houses who had fought under the rebel flag & managed to emerge from the war virtually untouched in terms of land, position and punishment. Ned was justified in his ire against Aerys and even Rhaegar himself, Jon Arryn was only defending the two Lords that he had raised like his sons. Robert though, sought to crown himself and even after being chained and defeated, the man swore vengeance against Rhaegar. _I’ll kill you all. You and your dragonspawn. All of you will meet my hammer._ Robert’s words still rang in his head. Despite Ned’s dislike of him, Rhaegar had done as much as possible to repair relations with the North.

The heir to House Manderly, the Starks most loyal bannermen and rulers of the only true city in the North, White Harbor, Wylis Manderly sat on the small council as an advisor of Northern affairs. Together, Rhaegar and Wylis, had restored several castles along the Wall, the two rebellions provided more than enough men to fill them, established trade agreements between Highgarden and Winterfell, and their crowning achievement was the three hundred and fifty-mile-long canal between Winterfell and White Harbor. It was the largest construction project since the construction of King’s Landing itself. The crown bore the brunt of the expense, with the Iron Bank happy to provide a sizable loan. Southern Lords grumbled about favoritism (they would gasp in shock if they knew how tough it had been to sell Ned on the idea) but Rhaegar was determined to make sure the people of the North were well prepared for winter. _Ned may never be as fond of me as Robert, but even he can’t deny that I have done more for the North than Robert ever would have._

A long summer meant an even longer winter and this summer lasted over a decade, the resulting winter might last a generation. _Winter is coming indeed, but the North won’t starve like it did in the past. My finest achievement._

The council rose when the three of them entered. Rhaegar’s father had thought to replace his own father’s council of seasoned men with younger, more idealistic replacements. Rhaegar on the other hand realized that wisdom usually came with age and his council was by far one of the most experienced.

“Your grace, we did not know if you were coming.” Tywin said in a smooth voice. _He means you’re late._ Only Tywin would have the gall to address a King’s lack of punctuality.

“Apologies my lords, my queen and I had to discuss the day ahead.” Tywin responded with a measured nod. If the Lord of Casterly Rock caught Sam’s tell-all blush, the older man didn’t let on. The other council members offered polite greetings and took their seats once he planted in his position at the head of the table.

His council had been carefully chosen of those who had remained loyal to the crown and those whose positions added the most stability to the realm. Ser Arthur, while not Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, took the customary position to his direct right. Randyll Tarly was the Master of Laws, a slight to his liege lord, but Mace Tyrell could hardly complain. The decision to play the game and spend most of the rebellion outside of Storm’s End when a majority of his force could have been put to use elsewhere had earned House Tyrell the ire of the crown. Randall’s appointment also tied the military mastermind of most of the Reach’s victories closer to the crown.

Lord Lucerys Velyaron maintained his position as the Master of Ships. The man had stood in defense of his then pregnant mother and Viserys at Dragonstone and Rhaegar saw no reason to replace him.

Jon Arryn was the Master of Coin, despite being one of the leaders of the Rebel’s army. Any man who could refuse the machinations of a mad man to protect his foster sons, had Rhaegar’s respect. Lord Arryn and his family’s stay in King’s Landing had done much to repair the crown’s relationship with the Vale. Rounding out the small council was Grand Maester Marwyn, Wylis Manderly, the commander of the Gold Cloaks, Jon Connington as Master of Whispers and Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King.

Before they could begin their meeting, Rhaenys sauntered into the room. His eldest ignored the stares of the older men and pulled a chair to sit between him and Ser Arthur. He tried ignoring how much skin her dress showed and failed. Rhaegar understood how the heat necessitated less layers but no father wanted to see how much their daughter had grown. Rhaenys kissed his cheek sweetly and Rhaegar shook his head at her with an amused smile on his face. The King gave a pointed stare to the council members to begin. It broke the gazes that had honed in on Rhaenys’ thin dress.  

Tywin seemed unfazed by Rhaenys’ presence nor did he look too bothered by the late start to the meeting. The man was just over sixty, tall and slender with broad shoulders. Age had done little else but bald his head and sharpen his mind. “We were just discussing additional pirate activity in the Stepstones. They have gathered in enough strength that has caused some of the Storm lords to request something be done to the deal with this threat.”

The islands between Dorne and Essos have always been a haven for Pirates and other undesirables. Filled with corsairs from Lys and Myr, the Stepstones were a land without laws and an ever shifting dominion. Several times throughout history, his predecessors had led campaigns to conquer the chain of islands, but the gains were always short lived.

“Any word from Tyrosh?” Rhaegar asked. It was a loaded question. Tyrosh was the nearest of the free cities to the chain of islands, located directly North East of them. The city was in constant dispute with Myr to the east and Lys to the south. Often the three cities would hire sellswords and sponsor pirates to sit on the islands and make trade difficult for the other cities. The consequences of these trade wars were that all sea travelers continued to suffer as the islands were the gateway to the Summer Sea and the lands beyond it. Not only were the Seven Kingdoms affected but most notably Pentos and Braavos were as well.

Jon Connignton realized the question was directed to him. At nine and thirty, the reckless red haired youth that had squired for Rhaegar when he had first achieved Knighthood was replaced by a grey tinged man with crow’s feet that tugged at the corner of his eyes. He was clean shaven and had maintained the fit physique of his youth. There were dark circles under his eyes that hinted at a lack of sleep. “They might be behind the buildup of sellswords, though it is hard to say. All three cities have been hiring mercenaries in response to the elections held in Volantis.”

“What was the outcome of these elections?” Randyll Tarly growled out. The Master of Laws was unlike his son in many ways. Lean to the point of being slight, balding with a well-groomed beard. His smiles were nearly as rare as Tywin’s and he had the confidence that came from the reputation of being one of the finest battle commanders in Westeros. Rhaegar saw a small smile on the man’s face at seeing his son in his new position but it disappeared when the meeting began.

“The Tiger party achieved a narrow majority and won the election for the Triarchy. The city has begun hiring sellswords and word is that they have begun a recruitment drive in their territories to swell their armies.” The lord of Griffin’s Roost gruffly replied. He ran through his rust colored hair. The Master of Laws and the Master of Whisperers did not like each other. A sentiment developed due to Jon Connington’s defeat in the Battle of the Bells, during the Usurper’s war.  

“And the Triarch they elected?” Rhaenys asked, surprising Rhaegar. Usually Aegon attended, followed by Daenerys. His eldest rarely made an appearance and if she did, she usually was quiet. 

Jon Connington paused under Rhaenys’ indigo stare. “Daelyx Honorro.” He let out.

Sam gasped and all eyes turned to him. The boy blushed under their gazes but his voice lacked its usual stutter. “That’s Elaerys’ family.” When the other lord’s blank expressions did not change, Sam continued. “Jon’s… paramour.”

“Is the Triarch her father?” Lord Lucerys Velyaron asked. His silver hair was cut short and he wore dark clothing with the sigil of his house, a white seahorse on a seagreen field, stitched above his breast. At five and sixty, only Jon Arryn was older than the Lord of Driftmark but the Lord had only a few wrinkles adorning his face.

Sam shook his head. “I’ve never met her father but Elaerys had a large, well connected family. It could be one of her brothers or an uncle. Jon would know.”

“Find out.” Rhaegar said to Jon Connington. It was hard not to be disappointed in his friend. _Varys would have known the family connection before the election results were decided. His little birds were everywhere. ‘_ The Spider’, as Varys was known, disappeared in a sudden manner which mirrored his arrival at Rhaegar’s father’s court, leaving the city before they could wrest control of the Red Keep. The Eunuch knew that being one of the main conspirators who was aware of the King’s madness and who actively worked to keep him in power had doomed him to execution.

“Anything else?” Rhaegar asked.

Wylis Manderly spoke up. The Northman was one of the easiest to deal with on the council. Filled with pride like all highborn, but with an honest disposition that lacked any subversion. The large man was almost too big for his chair and his mustache gave him an uncanny resemblance to a Walrus but he was happy as long as the North’s concerns were addressed. “The Skagossi have been building ships and raids have been increasing on the Eastern and Western coasts. The Night’s Watch has also been reporting an uptake in raids by Wildlings and are requesting additional food due to the harassment of smallfolk in the new gift.”

“Perhaps they should do a better job defending their lands as is their duty.” Randyll Tarly spoke. Most southern lords held little respect for the Night’s Watch, believing it to be a penal colony for traitors, rapists and the disgraced. The notion held some truth but there were good, honest men in their ranks, defending the realm from the Wildling Raiders in the far north. _Benjen might have joined the order if Lyanna hadn’t forbidden him from doing so._

His queen didn’t want her youngest brother joining a brotherhood that required renouncing any possibility of having wives or children. Benjen had been angry but Ned agreed with his sister and placed their youngest sibling in Bear Island, a land to the far North to deal with Ironborn raiders from the south and wildlings to the north. Benjen’s second child with Dacey Mormont, his first daughter, proved the wisdom of Lyanna’s decision.

Rhaegar interrupted the stare down between the two men. “I assume Ned isn’t asking for assistance with Skagos or the Ironborn?”

“No. your grace, those are problems that the North can handle on its own.” Wylis replied without malice.

The south might have mocked the Northerners as savages but the Northern Kingdom was the most stable of the Seven Kingdoms by far. Even if life in the North was the most difficult. Part of that stability was their reliance on each other to deal with external threats, rather than descend into petty squabbles that would weaken them.

_The Night’s Watch is the responsibility of all the Kingdoms and I will make sure they are well provisioned._ “Very well. Jon, see to it that we send additional salted beef and grain along with additional furs and iron.” Since his coronation as king, Rhaegar had ensured the Wall and its protectors were kept in the best condition in centuries. The dungeons in the Red Keep were routinely emptied to send the Night’s Watch additional ‘recruits’. Food and adequate clothing were always the largest concern for the order. While the newly built canal alleviated much of that concern, it was wise to remind the other six kingdoms of their duty to the order.

The Lord of the Vale nodded at the command. The Old Lord was a capable Master of Coin and his position did much to smoothen relations between the Crown and the Vale.

Their talks descended into the on-goings of the capital. The lord commander of the Gold Cloaks briefed them on the various arrests made in the city. There were a few fights, one stabbing and thankfully no rapes reported in the last two nights.

Tywin and Jon Arryn discussed the financing the tournament, food expenses and stabling for the horses. Randyll and Jon Connington argued about the significance of the Stepstone pirates and possible connections to the free cities. Wylis held Rhaegar’s ear about the history of Skagos. Ser Arthur chimed in when Randall and Jon began talking strategies for an invasion. Sam recorded it all.

Rhaenys words quieted the room. “What if we sent Jon and Syraxes to deal with the Stepstones?”

Rhaegar frowned at his daughter. _Jon has yet to return and we are discussing sending him to war?_ The Lords didn’t notice his reluctance and latched onto her words.

“A dragon would reduce the number of men needed to clear out the islands.” Jon Arryn added.  All other lords with the exception of Tywin nodded agreeably.

“It would also increase morale to see that monster flying overhead.” Randall spoke, not noticing Sam’s wince at the use of ‘monster’. The boy looked ready to protest but was hesitant to speak out against his father.

Rhaegar disagreed. “Jon’s dragon is young and as the only living dragon, too valuable to risk in a war.”

Rhaenys spoke again. “We could reduce the risk to Syraxes. How many men do you think it would take to clear out the Stepstones?” She looked to Ser Arthur to answer her question.

The Sword of the Mourning beamed under Rhaenys’ gaze. “Five thousand to take them, perhaps another ten to hold them if any of the free cities respond individually.”

“Then we send ten to fifteen to take the islands, with Jon on Syraxes.” Rhaenys’ smile was elegant.

“Shock and awe.” Arthur said, a bit impressed.

“If they decide to mount a response, then it will have to be a sizable one. We will be able to prepare for it in the meantime.” Randyll answered. The man never shied from combat. Sam’s frown deepened.

“We will table this discussion until my son returns.” The lords nodded at that. The discussion would have moved on to other topics but Sam reminded Rhaegar of his meeting with the High Septon so he ended the meeting early.

Rhaenys kissed his cheek before she left to assist her brother with the arrival of the Dornish nobility. Rhaegar instructed Sam to wait outside along with Ser Arthur and asked Tywin to remain.

The door clicked shut, leaving the two sitting at opposite ends of the table. Tywin showed no surprise at the private conversation, in fact it looked as if he expected it.

Tywin was his father’s hand from Rhaegar’s birth till he was sixteen years old. In many ways Tywin had raised Rhaegar, taught him what it meant to rule the Seven Kingdoms in both name and in practice. Tywin’s deteriorated relationship with Rhaegar’s father also taught the King, that the loyalty of powerful lords was never guaranteed.

Aerys made the mistake of underestimating Tywin and had nearly lost his Kingdom, Rhaegar was determined not to repeat the same mistakes as his father. Prophecy demanded the union between the son and daughter of Ice and Fire but the security of the realm demanded that Tywin should have no cause for rebellion. A compromise needed to be reached.

“Lord Tywin, as you know Jaehaerys is bringing change to Westeros. My family’s legacy is being restored in large part due to members of your own family. Your brother and sons ensured Jaehaerys’ safety and the loyalty of House Lannister has once again been proven.” The words of praise did little to break Tywin’s stoic mask.

“You honor me.” The words out of the Old Lion’s mouth were pleasantries, said with little emotion but they were far better than silence.

Rhaegar continued. “I am not my father. I realize that holding the realm together would have been far more difficult without you acting as my hand.” The excessive flattery left a sour taste in his mouth, but the words were true.

Tywin was a man whose intellect few could match. He had an insatiable drive and ability to rule that help put into action, many of Rhaegar’s ambitions. It was in everyone’s interest if Tywin’s relationship with the crown was maintained.

“The purity of our dragon’s blood needs to be maintained with the return of the dragons. As such Jaehaerys will wed Visenya.” Tywin’s right eye twitched. A motion that would be unnoticeable to most but Rhaegar had spent a great deal of his life watching the man across from him.

“If you would be in agreement, Myrcella could also become his wife.” The words stumped Tywin. A look of genuine shock passed his over his face before the older man regained his composure.

“He would take two wives?”

“Like his father.” Rhaegar smiled. Lyanna wouldn’t like it, Visenya would hesitate and wait for her brother’s reaction but Jon was his most dutiful child. A boy of prophecy, one who would lead all men, not just Westeros through the wars to come. _Aegon will be king, but Jon would lead an empire._

 

 

 


	8. Princesses of Dorne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arianne and the Sand Snakes arrive in King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait. Other priorities in my life have been more pressing. I appreciate all of your support.

** Arianne Martell  **

 

_Pretty boys had ever been her weakness, particularly the ones who were dark and dangerous as well._ Arianne thought. Her husband was certainly pretty, hair the color of spun gold, with full lips, a chiseled jawline and a lean figure. He even wielded a Valyrian steel longsword, _Vigilance,_ passed from his father Lord Baelor “Brightsmile”, but her husband Dorian Hightower, “heir to the heir”, had as much of a weakness for pretty boys as she did herself. It wouldn’t have been as much of a problem to Arianne in comparison to other noble women. In Dorne, everyone was familiar with her uncle’s affection for both sexes and none raised the issue, Arianne had always known that there would be some likelihood that the man she would marry, could have similar leanings, yet it was hard to feel passion for a man when passion abandoned him the moment he saw your breasts.

At the age of one and twenty along with being the heiress of Dorne, Arianne knew it was soon time to produce an heir. She tried everything to entice Dorian, including inviting her cousin Tyene into their marriage bed, copious amounts of wine and fermented crab, and even a boy-whore from Old Town. The last had been the most successful and enjoyable for the both of them. Satin Flowers was a skilled lover who was attentive to both her and husband. With his soft, dark ringlets and pretty voice, Satin had kept Dorian’s attention long enough for her husband to spill his seed inside of her. Still Dorian had a bit of a jealous streak and wanted Satin’s attention all to himself. The boy-whore was all too eager to receive Dorian’s gifts of gold and silks along with his seed.

Despite the lack of passion between her and her husband, they were good friends and both were excited to arrive in King’s Landing. Everyone of import in Westeros was arriving in the capital and this was shaping up to be the largest tourney ever. The promise of seeing a returning prince on a dragon was an added bonus.

The possibility of play excited both herself and her husband. Dorian left Satin behind, his family wasn’t aware nor would they approve of their son’s uses for Satin. A newly elected Kingsguard was far more discrete than a boy whore. Her husband hadn’t stopped babbling about seeing Loras again. She envied him. A tourney was the perfect place for a man to lose all inhibitions. There were so many distractions, that even the most watchful eyes could be overwhelmed. Her uncle Oberyn had told her that tourneys like these were where one could find or lose themselves.

Her marriage to a Hightower, the defenders of the Faith of the Seven, necessitated discretion on both of their parts. Dorian had a younger brother that his father wouldn’t hesitate to displace him with in the line of succession if Dorian’s special tastes were ever to be discovered. _No man should be that flexible._ They had one rule, not to embarrass one another. Any lovers that they took had to be discrete and there was to be no balking of official duties and events.  

_If only Daemon wasn’t so damn stubborn._ She thought with a huff, blowing a strand of her dark curls out of her face. She was dressed to impress, a dress of green silk and Myrish lace. It had a deep neckline that showed off her large breasts that her husband pointedly ignored and was tight on her hips and ass with a slit that began high on her thigh. Gold bands adorned her hips and ankles, large hooped earrings graced her ears and a circlet of bronze with inlaid rubies rested on her forehead. She looked every bit an heiress. 

“Aroused?” Tyene’s gentle voice interrupted her musing. Her bastard cousin was seated across from her in their plush carriage. Despite being of an age with Arianne, Tyene’s fair skin and golden hair made her look like a newly flowered maiden. Which made her revealing blue dress look positively scandalous.

“Is it obvious?” Arianne asked. The heat and lack of sex made her restless. Darkstar knew better than to stray from Elia, and though it would have been quite tempting to make her aunt’s paramour stray, Arianne knew the last thing their family needed was more drama. Deziel and Drey both had wives tucked back in Dorne, Garin was ugly, Daemon was too focused on winning back his dragon princess and Edric was a little too young for her taste. The rest couldn’t be trusted to not have the pox or not boast about bedding the Princess of Dorne. All in all, there was a lack of suitable males during their entire journey; and it was a long one.

Each stop was a gathering for the many representatives of the major houses of Dorne. The Daynes, Yronwoods, Allyrions and Blackmonts had joined, to name a few. Including the free riders that had joined them, their host was somewhere near two hundred. Her father, despite his absence, meant to make a statement.

Tyene’s blue gaze met Arianne’s and dimples appeared in her cousin’s cheeks when she unleashed a broad smile. “You look like you’re in heat.” She turned her handheld fan on Arianne to emphasis her point.

“I am.” Arianne whined, playing up the drama.

“I can see your nipples from here.” Tyene emphasized her words with a pointed stare.

“How obvious? Enough to draw a few looks?” Arianne asked, thrusting out her chest.

“Enough to make a Kingsguard forget his vows.” Tyene japed. They shared a laugh, loud enough that Obara drew level with the window of their carriage.

“What’s so funny?” Obara asked. The heat had plastered her rat brown hair to her forehead and Obara needed to bend on the back of her big stallion to look into their carriage. With her riding leathers and thick muscles, some had mistaken Obara for a man on occasion. Which the Sand Snake took both with anger and a measure of pride.

Tyene was quick to answer. “Seeing you melt on that beast to save your pride. Get in here.”

Obara frowned at her younger half-sister. “No. Some of us have a concept of work and not constant leisure.”

“Hey!” Arianne exclaimed indignantly. “We are working. Deciding which lucky lordling we’re going to share _is_ important work too you know.” She emphasized.

A blush colored Obara’s cheeks and despite her attempt to brush off the comment, a flash in Obara’s eyes let Arianne know that she was interested. “It’s cool in here, you know.” Arianne said, letting the offer hang in the air.

Obara shook her head. “I’m assigned to the guard and guard I shall.” She dug her spurs into her mount and rode ahead before they could protest.

Tyene sighed. “I wish Nym were here. She could get that bitch in here.” She said, without malice.

Arianne agreed. _Obara is a warrior first and a woman second, or at least that is how she sees herself._ Nym’s skill with knives was equal to Obara’s skill with a s spear, and the two connected easier than Arianne and Tyene could. _But Nym’s in Volantis visiting her mother’s family._

Tyene crossed her legs and her dress parted from ankle to mid-thigh. She rocked her barefoot and leaned back against the wall of their plush carriage. “Do you think that the rumors are true? Dragons and magic?”

Arianne nodded. “Father seems to think so and uncle as well. And its all we’ve heard coming up the road. Dorian tells me that the Citadel is in a furor from the news and their sending a host of Maesters with his family to assist the Grand Maester.”

“Who would’ve thought that the dark one would be the one to do it? He doesn’t even look like a Targaryen.” Tyene mused.

It was true. Arianne hadn’t seen the prince on her last venture to the capital, he had been fostering in the North along with Aegon but she had heard that the prince had inherited his mother’s coloring, unlike his older brother and sister. Even Rhae had the purple eyes and her nose and jawline were so similar to Daenerys’. “They say he sailed into Valyria and returned with his dragon.”

“A pretty tale. Returning prince on a dragon, reunites with his family, a tourney of legend and the realm sighs in relief. The singers are going to have a field day.” Tyene quipped.

“Defies his father’s marriage plans, runs away for four years and returns with a dragon and magic. Sounds positively roguish.” Arianne said with a smile. Even the words made heat pool in between her thighs.

“Easy there, I don’t want to drown before we get there.” Tyene japed. Arianne gasped in astonishment and threw a silk pillow at her cousin’s head.

King’s Landing soon became visible on the horizon and then as they drew closer, dominated their view. Arianne stuck her head out the window of their carriage like she was a child, her breath hitched as she caught site of the city.

It wasn’t the most opulent city that she had ever seen, nor the largest. Arianne had the luxury of seeing Braavos, Norvos and Pentos first hand but King’s Landing had its own sense of majesty. Dominating the city’s skyline were the Red Keep, The Great Sept of Baelor and the hulking ruin of the Dragonpit. The latter looked reduced since she had last seen it. _Did the pit finally collapse?_ She wondered.

Each sat on their own hill so that they loomed over the basin of the city like three wardens. Buildings crawled up the hills of Rhaenys and Visenya where the Dragonpit and Great Sept sat but the Red Keep dominated its entire hill. Its pale red walls looked like dried blood in the sunlight.

Before long they were passing through the Lion’s Gate and traveling up the road to the gates of the Red Keep. Gold Cloaks seamlessly integrated with their guard but the smallfolk only stared in curiosity and hardly blocked their pathway. Even through her window, Arianne could feel the lively atmosphere of the city.  Children as old as ten ran naked through the streets, men and women danced or drank and as their entourage made its way up the cobblestone pathway, they heard snatches of bawdy songs or saw crowds gathered around street performers. She couldn’t suppress a grin, Tyene met it with a grin of her own.

Arianne took the time to remind herself of her duty. Play wasn’t the only thing she was here for, and it was a display of trust from her father that Oberyn and Elia weren’t accompanying them. Aegon didn’t know but his family was here to secure his crown. _A careful game of Cyavesse, we’re all chest pieces and my father is the master at hand. At least I’m aware of the moves being played._

Their carriage drew passed through the massive portcullis of the Red Keep and drew to a stop in the courtyard. Daemon was there to open her door. Arianne met his gaze as he took her hand to help her out of the carriage, and was briefly mesmerized by his sky blue eyes. The Bastard of Godgrace, her uncle’s former squire, now a Knight, Ser Daemon Sand was impressive as a man could be. Tall, well-muscled with sandy brown hair, that graced his strong jawline. His smile was brief but she saw the dimples and nearly swooned. _I need to get fucked. I’m a princess not a blushing maiden._ Sadly, Daemon’s gaze didn’t linger on her, he did glance at her body, no man who held an appreciation for the female form couldn’t help but take a look … or two …. or three. But Daemon’s gaze quickly scanned their welcoming party and Arianne saw the obvious disappointment sketch across his face. The knight quickly composed himself.

Her husband quickly joined her, looping her arm in his. He looked splendid with his family’s coat of arms, a white tower crowned with flames on a grey field, over immaculate white breeches and boots whose deep shine was unmarred by the dust of the road. “You look ravishing.” He whispered conspiratorially.

“If only.” She whispered back, squeezing his arm to get her point across.

“Don’t fret, maybe you’ll get some dragon seed.” He quipped.

She had to cover her mouth to stifle her laughter. Her brother Quentyn joined her next and she could see the same look of disappointment that had ran across Daemon’s face on his as well at Daenerys’ absence. Though Quentyn was unware that another man was also invested in his wife’s whereabouts.

Quentyn packed on some muscle, in the months since he had last seen his wife. Courtesy of spending time training with their uncle Oberyn. Her brother would never be considered handsome, but his well-groomed hair, and sharp clothing ensured that none could fault him for a lack of effort. _If you knew you were already a cuckold brother, would you still try so hard to impress your wife?_ Somehow, she knew the answer was still yes.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lady Ashara, Lady Allyria and Edric Dayne gathering. Darkstar stood off to the side, tall, dark and menacing. The man had enough smiles to only please Elia, for all the rest he wore a frown.

Arianne led their procession to the welcoming party. A page announced their titles. “Princess Arianne of House Nymeros Martell and her consort, Ser Dorian of House Hightower. Prince Quentyn of House Nymeros Martell, husband to Royal Princess Daenerys of House Targaryen…” The page went on, reading down the list of Dornish nobility. Thankfully the minor lords were skipped to save time.

Arianne knelt before her cousin, Crown Prince Aegon and couldn’t help but notice Rhaenys’ absence. _What are you up to Rhae?_

“Welcome cousins.” Aegon boomed _._ In his black and reds, Aegon looked every bit the heir to the throne. _He’s even prettier than I remembered._

Dorian coughed under his breath. “You’re drooling.”

“As are you.” She whispered.

“No, I’m having a bit more of a reaction down below.” He winked.

Bread and salt was exchanged and soon the need for formality was ended. At the princes’ side was Margaery Tyrell, Arianne’s husband’s cousin on his father’s side It was hard to not feel a bit of pride to see how the girl clutched Aegon’s arm when he stared a bit too closely at her assets. _Victory._ To the princes’ credit he did so as discretely as possible, but women noticed far more than what men realized. 

_I wonder if Egg prefers claws or thorns embedded in his person._ It was clear the girl wasn’t as secure in her relationship as Rhae was with her brother.

Quentyn asked the question she had been dreading. “Where is my wife?”

Aegon looked surprised at the tone of her brother’s voice. The two had barely exchanged pleasantries before the question left Quentyn’s lips.

_What are you doing Quentyn?_

He didn’t look angry at the lack of Daenerys’ attendance, just impatient. His eyes scanned around the crowd as if he had had somehow missed a beautiful woman with silver hair.

Arianne wanted to grab him by his hair and throttle him. _To think I once thought my father was going to replace me with Quentyn as his heir. Any man who can’t control his wife, can’t rule._

“She’s busy Quentyn. On official duty from the king, your reunion will have to wait.”

Rhaenys sauntered over to them, beautiful and as elegant as any dragon princess should be. Her tone was dismissive and the delivery powerful enough that her brother closed his mouth without protest. Nobility parted for her, many of their eyes mesmerized by her figure. Her full lips were raised in a smile.

Tyene was the first to greet Rhae, bastards were expected to be short on courtly manners and Tyene did nothing to dispel the stereotype by wrapping Rhae in a bodily hug. Rhae returned the affection and lifted the small girl so that she wrapped her legs around her hips as the princess twirled her through the air. Arianne joined them next, nearly taking Rhae to the ground with her enthusiasm, because reunions of family trumped maintaining appearances. The Princesses of Dorne were united at last.

There were so many questions Arianne had for Rhaenys. Like all of her cousins, she and Rhae were close, though Rhae and Nym were even closer. Rhaenys hadn’t been in Dorne for nearly two years, leaving Sunspear when Aegon left to assume more duties as the Crown Prince. She and Nym knew the full details of Rhaenys’ relationship with Aegon and both were concerned when it became clear the Tyrells were aiming to secure a betrothal of Margaery to Aegon. Rhaenys was possessive of her brother to a fault and Arianne had doubted that her cousin would tolerate another woman’s claim to be Aegon’s bride. Inviting women into their bed was completely different from marriage.

Now though, Arianne wasn’t sure what to make of their relationship. The Tyrell girl was the embodiment of the Reach’s emphasis on modesty. She was slender, full waisted and beautiful with an embroidered dress that showed shoulders and gave a hint of cleavage but still ran long to her ankles. There were no slits or cutouts in her dress that give more hints to her figure or showed more skin. Compared to Arianne’s and Rhaenys’ dresses, Margaery looked like a septa. _Could Rhaenys have corrupted this little rose?_ Arianne didn’t doubt her cousins charm and capability, but knowing the reputation of Margaery’s grandmother, aptly named the Queen of Thornes, Arianne wondered how Rhaenys circumvented the matriarch to pluck Highgarden’s prized flower.

When Rhaenys went to greet her brother, enveloping him in a warm hug that would have looked completely platonic if you didn’t have the knowledge that the two had been fucking for almost half a decade, the little rose simply smiled at her betrothed’s sister. It was a warm one as well, not part of the litany of half smiles that were ever present at court. _Maybe she doesn’t know that her husband loves the taste of his sister’s cunt?_ It was an amusing thought and not completely out of the possibility when you were dealing with someone like Rhae. Though the it was a bit alarming as well. Aegon’s impending betrothal to Margaery was all but confirmed, Arianne’s own marriage to Dorian was based on that fact. The Hightowers had long been a favored house of the royal family to choose consorts from. Despite the historical enmity between the Reachmen and Dornish, Arianne’s marriage was one link in a larger chain to secure Aegon’s crown.

More pressing than Rhaenys completely disregarding carefully laid plans in her pursuit of her brother, was Arianne’s own brother’s marriage and the impending arrival of the dragon prince. Everyone in Dorne knew the sorry state of Quentyn’s marriage to Daenerys. The princess’s departure back to the capital didn’t dispel any rumors of Quentyn not being able to handle his wife. Though not even her cousins knew about Daemon’s history with Daenerys. Her knight had broken down and confessed to her that the two began their affair nearly a year before the princess’s marriage to Quentyn, he had taken her maidenhead while her brother was fantasizing about his future wife with his hands, and the two had continued on their affair even after the wedding.

The princess’s departure back to the capital had turned the normally cheerful knight into a somber one. Arianne had known it was in Daemon’s nature to not be able to separate sex from love, once Arianne had to distance herself from Daemon after it was clear his feelings were more intense than her own. A bastard couldn’t be the consort of a Princess of Dorne. _You would have thought that he would have learned his lesson. A Targaryen princess? Even worse._ None could fault Daemon for trying. Daenerys looked every bit a daughter of Old Valyria. Arianne would kill to have her daughters look like Daenerys, but she cared for both Daemon and her brother. _Neither deserve to be hurt because the princess doesn’t like her prospects._ If Daenerys had been more receptive then she could have likely had a line of lovers. Likely it would have taken a few years, and Quentyn would want a child or two of his own, contrary to popular belief not all children of Dorne shared her and her uncle Oberyn’s willingness to share their love freely. Quentyn was more of her father’s child in that regard, but Daenerys refusal to even entertain her husband’s affections were destroying a chance of an amiable future.

For now Quentyn was none the wiser that their guard had so successfully seduced his wife and believed that Ser Daemon’s placement was due to the knight’s skill at arms and not due to their father’s machinations.

Once Arianne had believed her father weak and far past his prime, confined to a wheeled chair, never leaving the Water Gardens so that the citizens of Dorne weren’t privy to his depleted state. It was easy to mistake her father, Prince Doran, as a man who was clinging to the last vestiges of his life. But now, Arianne knew nothing escaped her father.

_“A child of Dorne belongs to Dorne, regardless if your brother had a hand in fathering it.” His study was well windowed with an abundance of sunlight to illuminate its interior, yet at that moment, Arianne remembered her father cloaked in shadow._

_“Rhaegar understands the importance of blood. If Dorne is to prosper then we must as well.”_

_“Keep your brother safe and let Daemon have his princess and we may soon have dragons of our own. This I entrust to you my daughter.”_

_I will not fail you father._ Arianne thought.

Now wasn’t the time to question her cousin, nor voice her concerns. Among the welcome party were Dorian’s family and extended family. His mother and father were there, as was his pretty younger sister Alicent, Dorian’s aunt and Margaery’s mother, Allerie, and the matriarch of the family, The Queen of Thornes.

Age had shrunk Olenna into a tiny, wizened woman with a stooped back. She wielded a cane varnished in gold with the leaves of House Tyrell engraved on her coat. Two of the largest men Arianne had ever seen flanked the elderly woman. They were at least seven feet in height, so tall that they made the elderly woman seem comically short. Both were clad in forest-green plate-mail with the Highgarden coat of arms. _Twins._ Arianne realized.

Dorian steered her over to his family. The Hightowers were as pretty as the Lannisters, and looked nearly Valyrian, like the Daynes. Dorian’s father’s eyes lingered on her form long enough that Arianne raised a challenging brow. The man’s wife was locked in conversation with her two children. Baelor blushed at being caught and Arianne moved on.

“Have you ever heard of the saying, leaving something to the imagination?” The Queen of Thrones leaned in and whispered.

Caught off guard Arianne couldn’t only voice “What?”

“I thought so. Though I suppose showing it all or hiding it away gets the same results with that husband of yours.”

_No wonder they call her the Queen of Thornes._ Quickly composing herself, Arianne whispered answered. “Lady Olenna, my uncle Oberyn told me stories of your sharp tongue.”

“And luckily I haven’t heard stories of your tongue my dear. Please do try to be discrete in whatever matters you get into here.” There was a smile on the old woman’s face, though it looked anything but sweet.

Margaery and Rhaenys interrupted their conversation before Arianne could reply. “Grandmother I take it you’ve met Princess Arianne?”

The old woman turned to regard her granddaughter. “Yes dear, I was just commenting on her style of dress.” Her tone left little doubt that Olenna’s opinion was negative.

Rhaenys spoke anyway. “Do you like it?” She gestured to her own dress. Rhae was tall enough that all of her clothing looked elegant, her arms were defined and a slit up the leg of dress showed smooth olive skin with obvious lines of muscle. A delicately arched brow regarded the Queen of Thornes. “I was thinking of having a few made for our little rose here. I’m sure Aegon would enjoy seeing her in one.” Rhaenys ran a hand across Margaery’s back and brushed the heiress’s hair to one shoulder. The move was simple but even the smallest gestures from Rhaenys could look seductive, the girl was sex personified.

Margaery blushed a bright red. _As if Rhaenys slid a finger in her bum._ The Queen of Thrones was mercifully silent.

Soon after the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms came down to greet them. Nearly as tall as Rhaenys, the Queen was a very pretty woman. Her pale skin fit well in the blue dress that she wore and the simple crown on her head looked as if it rested easily. Her smiles were bright and the widest when she laid eyes on Lady Ashara Dayne. The two embraced like they were sisters. _Elia should be here._ Something twisted in Arianne’s chest at the site.

Escorting the queen was Ser Arthur Dayne. It had been many years since Arianne had seen the fabled knight. _The years have been kind to him … very kind._ She thought of Tyene’s words in their carriage, _enough to tempt a Kingsguard._

Darkstar stepped forward to greet his cousin. Ask anyone who spent time with Gerold Dayne and they would tell you that he was jealous of his cousin, Ser Arthur. “Cousin, I see age has yet to make a crone of you. Perhaps another year or so.”

“Gerold, perhaps we can see if the years have made a man of you. It is doubtful.” Ser Arthur replied.

The scowl that grew on Darkstar’s face made Arianne question what her aunt saw in the man. He was pretty yes, a strong jawline, clean shaven with collar length silver hair parted by a streak of black. But the man was poison.

They parted after arrangements were made to show the lords to their rooms. The Red Keep was not large enough to shelter all and many would need to find lodgings outside of the castle. The Daynes were provided apartments in Maegor’s holdfast alongside her own, while the Allyrions and the Yronwoods were found rooms in further sections of the castle.

Aegon parted with Queen Lyanna, with Margaery Tyrell on his arm. Arianne looked to Rhae to see if she would react but Rhaenys simply waved them off and led Arianne and her cousins to her chamber. _This is the same girl that nearly clawed the eyes out of a serving wench who merely made the mistake of looking in Aegon’s direction._

They settled around the large couch and sipped summer wine. A servant soon brought them fruit and Arianne took care to quiet her questioning until they were alone among family once again.

“What game are you playing Rhae, challenging Olenna Tyrell? Need I remind you that she’s the grandmother of your brother’s soon to be queen?” Arianne questioned.

Rhae smiled sharply. “Need I remind you cousin, that the Tyrells are aware that the key to Aegon’s heart is maintaining a good relationship with his elder sister. The realm knows how close we are.”

“Not how close.” Tyene quipped, holding one hand so that her index finger and thumb formed an O while she thrusted the index finger of her other hand through the hole.

Rhaenys laughed and threw a pillow at her cousin.

“Still.” Arianne continued. “That stunt with her hair. It looked like-“

“You stuck a finger in her bum.” Tyene interrupted with a giggle. _Great minds think alike._ Arianne thought _._ Obara scoffed.

“Is sex all you think about?” Their eldest cousin questioned. Being indoors had cooled her somewhat, though her forehead still shone from sweat. Her hair was down from its high bun, a rough cut of rust brown hair.

“You should try it sometime Obara, its quite refreshing.” Tyene deadpanned. 

Rhaenys interrupted before the two could argue. “A little much but they’ll soon need to grow used to it.”

“Stop being cryptic Rhae and tell us.” Tyene pressed.

“What I’m going to tell you, doesn’t leave this room.” Rhae’s eyes were fierce and she stared into each of theirs, drawing out three conformations before she began.

“Father plans to marry Aegon and I to secure our bloodline.”

Arianne sucked in a breath. “And the Tyrells? They’ve been expecting a marriage for Margaery for years now! Loras is a damn Kingsguard.”

Rhaenys response was as calm as a still pond. “Margaery will be Queen as well. Aegon likes her well enough to ask father for her hand as well.” Rhaenys offered. Her cousin reclined on the couch, popping a grape into her mouth.

“And you think they’ll agree so easily? Olenna would hardly approve of her daughter being a second queen.” Tyene asked. She was seated nearest to Rhae, resting her tiny feet on the table in front of the couch.

“The Tyrells are important, yes, but much of their power was negated when Tarly took his seat on the small council. The man’s son went with Jon to Valyria, if Highgarden makes a fuss then we’ll replace Highgarden’s influence with our more loyal lord.”

Tyene and Obara seemed to accept Rhaenys’s logic but Arianne was not yet swayed. “And your father is going to accept Aegon having two wives? We all know what happened with Westeros having two Queens.”

“I am not my mother.” Rhaenys answered bitterly.

_Not the best choice of words._ Comparing Rhaenys to Elia was the quickest way to earn the princess’s scorn. “Sorry Rhae, I didn’t mean that. I just meant that the crown doesn’t have the best history when there are two queens.”

“I’m aware of my family’s history Ari.” Rhaenys responded, her tone still sour.

Obara spoke before tensions could rise. “So it is true then, about your brother having a dragon? The king wouldn’t change plans years in the making if there wasn’t a good reason.”

Rhaenys nodded. “Jon not only has a dragon but is planning to hatch more for all of us.”

Obara breathed deeply. “And you don’t think that’s a problem? Your brother having the only dragon for the foreseeable future? Aegon’s the Crown Prince but that all could change if your other bro-“

Rhaenys cut her off before she could finish. Her voice was terse and raised an octave. “Jon has never desired Aegon’s crown. He’s always been loyal to Aegon and will remain loyal when Aegon ascends to the throne.”

“And you don’t think that could change? What if he wants the throne himself? What could Aegon or anyone do to stop him?” Obara’s words were Arianne’s thoughts. The muscular woman met the princess’s gaze with a challenging one of her own.

“Enough!” Rhaenys roared. She stood quickly startling everyone. “Out both of you!” She pointed to Tyene and Obara. The two looked awkwardly to Arianne. Rhaenys addressed her. “You stay.” Her voice was almost a growl.

There was a brief standoff between Obara and Rhaenys as the two regarded one another. Arianne intervened. “It’s okay. Let us talk.”

Rhaenys waited till their cousins exited their room before speaking. “Listen Ari, we are family and I appreciate the support for Aegon’s crown but Jon is MY brother. As much as Aegon. If he is somehow a threat to Aegon’s legitimacy then it is MY issue to handle, not yours.”

“Rhae, Obara was addressing a legitimate threat to Aegon’s reign. Your brother has been gone for four years, you have no idea of the man that he has become.” _If Quentyn or Trystane left Dorne and returned with so much power, I would feel fear. How can she not see the validity in our concern?_

“I am no fool Ari. I know that Uncle Doran sent you all here for a reason, so let me make myself clear. If Jon so much as complains about a bad belly then I’ll feed Tyene to his direwolf. If Jon dies a suspicious death and I suspect it had something to do with Dorne then I’ll claim Syraxes myself and show Dorne the dragon’s wrath. He’s a Targaryen and it is my family’s responsibility to deal with him. If I need your help then I’ll ask. Until then, sit on the sidelines and do nothing. As a matter of fact, if any of you want to approach Jon then you need to ask me first. Is that understood?”

Arianne nodded and then voiced her understanding when it was clear Rhaenys wasn’t satisfied with a nonverbal answer. “Yes, I understand.”

It was tense still after their confrontation. Rhaenys reaction to their question confirmed Arianne’s fears. _She will not be able to think logically if things do not break easily. Wars between family are never easy._ Aegon’s crown was important but it wasn’t the only piece on the board. The Targaryens never Truly started marrying outside of their family until the dragons were dead and becoming a memory. Arianne had dragon’s blood courtesy of the first Daenerys who married Qoren Martell, _or was it Maron,_ but she didn’t think it was enough to claim a dragon of her won. But any child of Daenerys or even _hers_ could be the next generation of riders. _Riders loyal to Dorne!_

Her cousin’s mood didn’t improve. Any question Arianne asked, Rhaenys answered with a single word and made no attempt to carry their conversation. It remained that way until Aegon stepped into the room.

His hair was down, reaching past his neck and he appeared surprised at the site of just the two of them. “Is something wrong?” He asked.

“We had a small argument.” Arianne answered, ignoring the pointed gaze Rhaenys sent her way.

Aegon padded over to his sister and took a seat next to her on the couch. She made no move to greet him. Aegon looked to Arianne and she shrugged her shoulders. The prince grabbed his sister by her hips and pulled her into his lap, ignoring the half-hearted squirming.

Rhaenys stilled once her brother’s arms were around her and rested her head on his shoulder. A smile touched her lips when Aegon leaned down to place a kiss on her lips.

The sight filled Arianne with jealousy. In many ways Dorian had become as close to her as Tyene but they would never share affection on the level of these two.

“What was the argument about?” Aegon asked. Rhaenys violet eyes stared at Arianne, waiting to hear her answer. _If Rhae reacted badly to us questioning Jon’s ambitions then how would Aegon react?_

“Politics.” Arianne answered.

Aegon wrinkled his nose. “Don’t you ever tire of talking politics? Its all we’ve been doing for weeks and all we will be doing until my brother arrives and this damn tourney starts.”

“Yes very tiring.” Rhaenys answered. She tilted her head, exposing the naked column of her neck and a generous amount of her shoulder. Her brother reacted to the unspoken offer and placed a string of kisses down his sister’s neck. Rhaenys shivered and any lingering tension seemed to dissipate from her body as she sunk further into her brother’s embrace.

The sight of the two ignited a familiar heat between Arianne’s thighs. There were times she wished that she was a Targaryen. To have a brother as beautiful as Aegon, she didn’t blame Rhae for her possessiveness. If she were in Rhae’s place then Arianne wouldn’t leave the bedroom until she was delivering twins.

Aegon’s hands ran up and down his sister’s arms and when that wasn’t enough he ran them across her midsection. They seemed to hesitate under Rhaenys’ breast. The prince’s gaze rose to met Arianne’s own. A guilty look was in his eyes.

Ari merely smiled but she wanted to touch herself at the site of them. Rhae had never shared Aegon with her or Tyene. _Maybe if I ask nicely._

Rhae’s eyes opened and she untangled herself from her brother’s arms. “I need a massage Aegon. Do you mind grabbing the oil and some linens for the bed?” Her dress pooled at her feet, exposing long legs and high breast capped by small brown nipples. A thatch of silky black hair covered the treasure between her thighs. Arianne drank in the sight of her. “Grab two towels, I suppose Ari will want one as well. “

When Aegon rose to fulfill his sister’s command, Ari saw the large tent in his trousers. Rhaenys grabbed her hand and pulled her to the bed. “Strip. We don’t want to ruin your dress.” Rhaneys ordered. Arianne failed to hide her eagerness and quickly complied.

Rhaenys eyes locked on to Arianne’s breast and she sucked in a breath as she cupped the large breast. “By the gods Ari, have they gotten even bigger?”

Rhaenys was so close that Arianne became conscious of how short she was. At two inches above five feet, Arianne was shorter than all of her siblings and cousins with the exception of Tyene and Trystane, and the latter who was only eight years old. Rhaenys towered at least five inches over her and her height gave her a commanding presence. Yet her hands were smooth and cupped her breast with a lover’s touch. They soon ran across her sides and down her back to cup her ass. Rhaenys kneaded her buttocks testing the jiggle. “This certainly has.”

Arianne leaned upwards and met Rhaenys’ lips with her own. She tasted sweet and soon their lips parted to met one another’s in a duel. A single kiss left her light headed and she gasped loudly as Aegon pressed against her from behind.

The feel of a warm muscular man sent a shiver down her spine. But the sensation of his naked cock pressing against the small of her back, spiked the heat in her core. Rhae and Aegon kissed over her shoulder, delicate at first and then hungry. Not to be outdone Arianne kissed Rhaenys collar and cupped her firm ass. Thankfully it wasn’t the size of her own but it still felt incredible.

Rhae broke away from her brother and grabbed each of their wrist and led them back to the bed. “Me first and then we can work on you, Ari if you prove to be a team player. “

Aegon smirked and pushed his sister to the bed. “Always with the orders sister.”

Rhaenys returned her brothers smirk with one of her own. “I doubt hear you complaining …Oh…” Her words devolved into a moan as Aegon spread her legs and dipped his head down to taste the wetness between her thighs. Her nails dug into her brother’s silver hair and a long whine escaped her throat.

Arianne took the chance to admire Aegon’s form. He was the perfect counterpart to his sister’s beauty. Lighter skin tone with no noticeable fat covering his body. He wasn’t as muscular as Daemon which made sense as Daemon was a couple years older than Aegon but the cock between his legs was long and thick. Red and hard from the sight of his sister and Arianne hoped herself.

Rhaenys pushed her brother away after a moment. “Patience Egg. I want my massage first.”

Aegon looked dazed and his lips were slick from his sister’s juices. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

Rhaenys smiled at her brother and then it turned wicked when she looked at Arianne. “Kiss your cousin Aegon. I think she’s feeling a bit neglected.”

Aegon pulled Arianne into him and his hands traced similar pathways to that of his sister’s, making a beeline to her breast and then sliding around to grab handfuls of her ass. He went a step further though, lifting her off the ground by her cheeks and sliding his cock against her center as he set her on the bed. His lips pressed against her and sucked her bottom lip into her mouth.

“How does my pussy taste cousin?” Rhaenys whispered into Arianne’s ear and the Princess of Dorne shudder as a small orgasm ran through her. “That’s one you owe me.” Arianne answered by grabbing Rhaenys by the back of her head and smashing her lips to hers. Aegon’s cock slid against her center insistently and she spread her legs as much as possible, the desire for him to slid into her was nearly unbearable. Rhaenys hand slid down Arianne’s stomach and played with the curls above her pussy, never dipping low enough to brush against the button above her folds.

“Soon.” Aegon said and the two were sliding away from her. It took a moment for Arianne to compose herself and when she sat upwards, Rhaenys was already lying on her stomach with Aegon above her pouring oil on her back. He sat just under his sister’s ass and his cock split her cheeks.

Arianne admired Aegon’s technique. His hands slid up his sister’s back and he used his thumbs and pads of his hands to work the creases in her muscles. Rhaenys melted under his ministrations and her eyes soon closed to revel in her brother’s touch.

Not needing an invitation to join in, Arianne coated her hands in oil and focused on Rhaenys shoulders as Aegon focused on her mid back. They worked in tandem and as Aegon moved lower so did Arianne.

He spent a lot of time kneading his sister’s ass, spreading her cheeks and letting the oil leak between them. Rhaenys moaned in agreement lifting her hips in an almost imperceptible motion in response to her brother’s touch.

Aegon had the preferred position straddling his sister’s legs as he worked on her. Leaning over Rhaenys quickly grew uncomfortable and so Arianne straddled her cousins back, hissing with delight as her core came in contact with Rhaenys back.

She caught Aegon staring at her breast and wiggled her hips so they swayed with her motions. “Ari.” Rhaenys whined.

Now feeling in control, Arianne smirked and Aegon laid a slap to Rhaenys’ butt cheeks. Her younger cousin lifted her hips and Arianne laid a matching slap on the other cheek.

Aegon had moved down to work on his sister’s thighs. Spreading them slightly so his hands could brush against her nether lips. Arianne took the opportunity and gripped Rhaenys’ ass cheeks. Her cousins’ bum was not so wide as her own but impossibly perky and with enough jiggle that Arianne was mesmerized by playing with the globes.

She mimicked Aegon spreading Rhaenys’ cheeks and grabbing the bottle of oil so she could pour the warm oil directly down Rhaenys’ crack. Her cousin’s rosebud winked as a flow of warm oil traveled across it sinking into its depths. A dark desire suddenly filled Arianne. “Can you move down a bit?” She asked Aegon.

He obliged and she turned around straddling Rhaenys’ legs so she was facing the same way as both of them. She looked over her shoulder at Aegon, who looked mesmerized by the sight of her ass in his face. She rolled her hips in invitation and then focused on making Rhaenys scream.

The royal princess’s ass was slick, warm and glowing. Arianne smacked each cheek until they glowed red. Rhaenys cried out but her ass lifted off the bed in desire, not pain. Arianne rubbed the now red cheeks to decrease the burn and her fingers slipped between Rhaenys’ thighs finding her center.

Rhaenys was so wet that Arianne’s finger sunk into her with little friction and Arianne soon added another. By now Aegon had grabbed the oil and was spreading it on her. He conveniently forgot her back and instead focused on her ass, spreading the oil across her cheeks. Arianne lifted and spread her knees to give him more access, a move Rhaenys tried to mirror but Arianne laid a hand against her cousin’s lower back and pressed her back into the bed.

Arianne’s fingers slid from Rhaenys wet heat and moved upward to trace her cousin’s rosebud. Rhaenys stilled at the sensation but Arianne wasn’t to be denied. The combination of the oil and Rhaenys slickness let Arianne’s finger slip in easily and her cousin only tensed once Arianne’s entire finger was inside of her.

“You like that don’t you?” Arianne whispered. Rhaenys shook her head and whispered no but Arianne could tell she was lying. “Oh really?” She made a move to slide her finger out of Rhaenys’s bum but her cousin lifted her hips to follow the motion. Arianne answered with a gentle thrust of her finger, burying it back inside of her.

Aegon paused in massaging Arianne’s ass. Pressing against her so he could peer over her shoulder and watch the debauchery unfold. “Gods Ari, are you in her ass?”

Arianne nodded and then moaned as Aegon cupped her tits and pressed his pelvis against her backside. His cock slipped between her thighs and the blunt head of his cock pressed against her heat. She wiggled her hips to get him to penetrate her but the angle was wrong.

“Have you two never done this?” Arianne asked surprised. It wasn’t something she did often, in fact she had only done it once and never to a woman but Rhaenys was lifting her hips as much as she could to meet her finger.

Aegon shook his head and planted a kiss on her shoulder. “Never, I’ve tried but she hasn’t let me.”

Arianne smiled. “So your pretty sister will fuck her brother and pull innocent maidens into your bed but she won’t let you fuck her ass?” Rhaenys groaned at the words and Arianne swatted a cheek. Aegon didn’t answer, instead his hands explored her body caressing her curves like he wanted to commit them to memory.

“Why is that Rhae? Don’t you want your brother in your ass? I know you have had him everywhere else. You Targaryens are so filthy. What’s one more hole?”

“Gods Ari.” Rhaenys groaned.

“Or maybe you need one in your pussy to take your mind off it? Hmm I wonder who would be the other? Don’t you have another brother coming home?”

The words set both Rhaenys and Aegon off. The princess’s bucked backwards as if she really was getting fucked and Aegon grabbed Arianne by the shoulder and sank his cock into the Princess of Dorne in a single motion.

Between her moans Arianne growled out “Oh you both like that… sharing your sister with your brother.. making her beg for both of you. Would you like that Rhae? A brother in your mouth and another in your ass? Would you be a good whore…oh fuck.”

Aegon’s hips snapped against her ass driving her to her hands and knees.  Rhaenys crawled out from under Arianne and soon Arianne was feasting on Rhaenys as Aegon took her fiercely. The room filled with sound of skin slapping together as Aegon drove into her over and over again.

He was fierce driving into her with a mad passion so that she was soon driven off her knees and laid prone on the bed. Deprived of sex as she was, Arianne came harder than she could ever remember, screaming into Rhaenys cunt as her own fluttered around Aegon’s cock.

Rhaenys rolled out her own orgasm against Arianne’s face, her cries were silent but her body shook and her legs lifted in the air as the sensations rolled through her body.

Aegon was relentless driving into Arianne with powerful thrusts that shook the bed until he came undone inside of her. _Saves me from begging for it._

They collapsed in a heap exhausted. Arianne cuddled between the two lovers and joined them in a nap. When they woke her center throbbed in both pain and pleasure and Aegon’s seed leaked from it like a white stream.

Slick with oil and sweat their bed was ruined but the low lying sun reminded Arianne of the feast they needed to attend. “What time is it?” she questioned.

“Bath time.” Rhaenys answered and led the three of them to her connected bathing chamber. It was a room of smooth stone with a large basin carved into the center of the room that formed the tub. Rhaenys turned the tap and soon hot water filled the stony basin.

Arianne’s eyes lifted in surprise. “A recent addition that came with the other upgrades in the city.” Rhaenys answered the unspoken question. Then she rose and opened the door to the adjoining chamber and peeked her head in.

“Whose room?” Arianne asked.

“Little sister’s” Aegon answered.

“Don’t want to scar her before Jon gets here. He’d never forgive us if Aegon is the first man she sees naked.” Rhaenys laughed and they soon piled into the tub once it reached waist high.

Their bath passed without incident…well not much incident. Rhaenys wanted to see how far Arianne could take Aegon in her mouth and when she took all of him till her nose pressed into his silver curls, Rhaenys rubbed Arianne’s head and whispered to her brother. “I think she can compete with our little rose.”

They exited the shower and now dressed and cleaned were making their way across the drawbridge of Maegor’s holdfast when loud screams pierced the evening air. Guards near the drawbridge sprinted across into the connecting courtyard.

Aegon and Rhaenys sprinted to follow the commotion and Arianne struggled to keep up with them.

People were running in the opposite direction and Arianne soon lost her cousins in the fleeing crowd. She stopped a young girl, her coloring made her look like a Reachman. “What’s happening?” Arianne questioned. The girl was hysterical, tears streaming down her face and her clothing was disheveled like she had fell in the scramble.

“The Direwolf, he’s gone mad.” The girl slipped her grip and disappeared with the crowd.

Arianne stopped another man. He was at least a foot taller than her, yet his face was as ashen as the child’s. “What’s happened. What did the direwolf do?”

“The beast went mad! Started tearing guards apart and anyone else who tried to stop it. Ripped apart ten men in less than a minute. I saw it with my own eye.”

Her heart caught in her chest. _Obara wouldn’t hesitate to try and kill the beast._   _What if…_ Arianne was running before she could finish the thought.

The scene she came onto looked like a massacre. Severed limbs littered the courtyard, arms and legs strewn across the dirt as it there was some gruesome battle. Guards were screaming in agony and those still present looked as if they had seen an act of a vengeful god.

Arianne scanned the carnage, searching for the sight of Tyene’s blonde hair and praying that Obara wasn’t among the dead. And then she saw Rhaenys and Aegon. The two were crouched on the ground amidst the bloodshed, two Kingsguard stood near them their hands on the hilts of their blade and their eyes scanned for a sight of the direwolf. _Where is it?_

As she drew closer Arianne could see that Rhaenys was clutching a body to her chest while Aegon huddled near her. Her heart sank as she saw the blood and grime covering the girl’s dress. _Visenya._

The massive Kingsguard stood in her way, blocking her from drawing any closer. Arianne peaked around the man, desperate to comfort her cousins. At first she thought Rhaenys was clutching a corpse of her sister but then she realized that the sobs rocking Rhaenys were both hers and her sisters.

“Rhae please, we have to help Jon. Please he’s in trouble.” The young woman whispered. Tears were streaming down her face. She was covered in blood but looked otherwise unharmed.

“Sweetling Jon did this… Ghost is his.” Rhaenys answered. She was shocked and it showed.

Visenya shook her head and pleaded with her elder siblings. “It wasn’t him. I saw it. They were making him do it. They’re torturing him, please Rhae. I saw him screaming. I looked in Ghost’s eyes and I saw Jon screaming.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut that was promised? 
> 
> Special thanks to my beta GOT88.


	9. Scions of Old Valyria Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up right after his battle with the Dothraki, Jon travels to Volantis and finds that his efforts to remain undetected have been thwarted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, happy birthday to me. That's right I'm so dedicated to this damn story that I'm posting a new chapter on my birthday. Hope you all feel special.
> 
> Secondly big round of applause to Haermonys who edited the colors of the picture below to better reflect the look of Syraxes.

****

 

**Jon**

_"You took my sister from me." Maelyx Honorro rasped. His right eye was filled with malice, the other was a bloody ruin from where Jon had plunged Judgement into the socket._

_Jon would have answered, perhaps with a gloat, but the magic of Maelyx's twelve shadowbinders held his body in place. All he could do was move his eyes and glare. He was kneeling before Maelyx, arms spread, and body anchored by clawed shadows. The warlocks stood behind Maelyx, their expressions hidden by strange masks and their bodies obscured by dark robes._

_"How many sisters do you have? Soon you'll have one less. A sister for a sister, and I'll make you watch as your beast tears her apart."_

_Jon struggled against his restraints to no avail. He couldn’t shake his head or even clench his teeth, and it took all his strength to breathe. A fog covered his mind and Jon couldn’t even feel Syraxes. Fear crept through him._

_"And when that’s done. I will make you watch when I take your dragon."_

**_Weeks Earlier, Post Battle of the Dothraki Sea_ **

Jon woke with a start, sitting up so fast that his head crashed into the membrane of Syraxes’ wing. She lifted her wings instantly, craning her long neck so her large eyes stared at him, checking to see if he was unharmed. The horizon was beginning to glow from the rising sun and the animals of the Dothraki Sea were either settling down to rest and wait for the sunset or waking for the day. The air was clear in the grass sea, away from any horses and with miles of grass stretching to the horizon. He took a deep breath and stretched.

His body ached, not from sleeping on the ground for he had grown used to rough travel, but from the phantom pains of his dreams. Jon flexed his hand to remind himself that it was not this body that was trampled by a sea of terrified people nor it was this body that was burned by the fires of the earth. Quick deaths in his dreams were the easiest to overcome and soon the pain abated. The wounds that were allowed to fester could trouble him for days after he awoke.

They weren’t simple dreams; that he knew. For the sensations he felt, the heat of the sun, the weight of steel in his hands were as real as any waking moment. It wasn’t greensight either, for Lord Reed’s son Jojen described the green dreams as vague and more like imagery that had to be interpreted. Wherever Jon went, he was not just witnessing the past but experiencing events as time unfolded.

There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to where he journeyed in the past, except for that he was always in the proximity of the freehold or its colonies. The earliest he had journeyed  was sometime during the first Ghiscari wars, when the Valyrians had yet to truly master their dragons or their magic. He had fought side by side with his Valyrian brothers and sisters, killed men in the name of the fledging civilization with a bronzed tipped spear. Fear was as visceral there as it was in the present and when journeying into the past, he had no connection to Syraxes or Ghost to draw his strength.

When in the past, it seemed that his Valyrian Blood came to dominate, and his hair and eyes turned his father’s colors. The features allowed him to blend in with the citizens of the freehold. In the early days, the Valyrians formed a tight brotherhood with one another, most likely born out of necessity. The Valyrian Peninsula was in the center of Essos, beseeched on all sides by the Ghiscari Empire, the Sanori Kingdoms, Qaathi cities and the traveling warbands of ancient Dothraki. The beauty of the early Valyrians had made them into a prime target. Rape and slavery were chief among their concerns which made the Valyrians wary of outsiders.

Prior to taming their dragons, the Valyrians were simple shepherds that had little experience in warfare. They had relied heavily on their dragons in their earliest conflicts and the men on the ground were supremely vulnerable to the lockstep legions of Old Ghis without a dragon flying overhead.

Jon’s experiences during the Rhoynish wars had shown him how much the Valyrians had learned with thousands of years of war. Unlike Westeros, the Valyrians did not place an emphasis on heavily armored, mounted warriors. They molded their army after the defeated empire of Old Ghis but expanded on the principle. Instead of legions of men marching with tri-tipped spears and shields, the Valyrian infantry was a mix of light and heavy armed troops armed with spears and then later pikes with swords as secondary weapons. Regiments of dragonbone wielding archers allowed the infantry to strike their enemies long before they could mount a response. Light armored troops and Cavalry allowed them to march incredible distances in days rather than weeks.

Once the freehold had learned the secrets of iron making and then later of how to work steel, they soon began to surpass any of their predecessors in military prowess. By the time they were arming their officers with spell forged Valyrian steel, they had also learned how to wield magic as a weapon as well. It made the forces of the freehold practically unstoppable.

The spellswords, as they were known, were among the most elite of Valyrian warriors. Often they came from the forty dragon riding families but normal citizens with a talent for magic were among their ranks as well. With dragons reigning fire from above, disciplined warriors on the ground, among them the spellswords who could throw or ignite their enemies with their minds and wield powerful spells that fueled, moving autonomous, siege weapons, not even the Rhoynar and their water mages could stand against the might of the Freehold. 

Jon stood on unsure legs, wincing as the aches in his body protested his motions. _At least my death was swift this time._ His dreams came in uneven frequency, there could be days between when he journeyed or sometimes weeks. The journeys were never of the same length nor did he travel to the same period. Five thousand years of the Freehold's existence left plenty of points to jump along the timeline. _I didn’t even have time to make up an identity._

The longest he had been immersed in Old Valyria was for over three months. That had been his first and most confusing journey; brought on by the weeks he had been unconscious when his party had first journeyed to the ashes of the freehold. The longer he slept, the more time he spent back in the past, though the time he spent sleeping was not linear with the time he spent in his jumps.

Those first few jumps revealed little of the rules that governed the magic behind his jumps through time. Warning those in the past of the calamity of the Doom guaranteed suspicious looks before some unseen force pulled him from reality and dropped him right to the end of the freehold. Informing anyone of his Targaryen heritage was even worse. Those of the forty families were seen as near divinity in the early days and by later periods, those of the blood wielded enough power and influence that common citizens were likely to kill impersonators. A detail that he had learned the hard way.

It was better to blend into the crowd as a commoner, Jaehaerys was a relatively common Valyrian moniker. The anonymity allowed Jon to observe and mentally record what he could. Witnessing from the sidelines the replacement of an amputated hand of a dragonlord from House Belaerys with one made of Valyrian steel, enabled Jon to voice the spells needed to heal Jaime.

Traveling took its toll though. Syraxes and Ghost were his only anchors to the present and Elaerys had been the only one who knew the toll he paid.

His dragon watched as he stripped down to his trousers, exposing his scarred upper body. He shifted into the first stance of his kata, grateful as the aches began to lesson as he proceeded through the movements. His time in Volantis, a city that was a bridge to the east and west, allowed Jon to meet travelers who would have never gone as far west as King’s Landing. Among them was a female sellsword from the lands of Yi Ti, who had thoroughly schooled Jon in unarmed combat before teaching Jon the art.

The kata was an amalgamation of multiple martial arts practiced in the far east. It was designed to quickly disable much larger and stronger opponents with strikes and grapples that neutralized the advantages of strength by targeting weak points along the body and turning your opponent’s mass and momentum into your own weapon against them. In combat it led to quick and absolutely brutal takedowns. Outside of combat, the movements became an explosive dance, where each was designed to flow into another. Exercise was the simplest way to clear his mind, tempo became his paramount concern and the burn in his muscles made forgetting other concerns easier.

He trained until his breath came out in ragged pants and the sun rose in the horizon. Then he snatched up Judgement and moved with the sword. The influence of the kata made his fighting style more aggressive and he incorporated a number of punches and kicks into his repertoire. Fighting alongside the Valyrians and learning the water dance of the Braavosi had made his fighting style unlike any other.

Judgment was longer and lighter than a traditional longsword but double edged with a sharp point that was effective against armor.  It allowed for the traditional slash and bash style that longswords favored but he could also emulate the stab and thrust fighting style that Braavosi blades favored. _I can’t wait to see Egg’s face when he tries keeping up with me._

By the time he was finished, beads of sweat ran down his back and the sun had cleared the horizon over an hour ago. He sheathed Judgement, delighting in the cool breeze that ruffled the grassland. Syraxes shifted and snorted puffs of smoke. He rubbed along her muzzle to calm her. His dragon was always the most anxious to fly in the mornings and barely tolerated any delays. _I wonder how you’ll tolerate King’s Landing? I can’t have you burning any stable boys._

She bumped her muzzle against his chest, nearly knocking him off balance. “Very well, I get the message.” He said with a laugh.

Running a hand down her flank, Jon marveled at his dragon’s size.  “You grow a foot or more every day. Your saddle won’t fit you by the time we reach King’s Landing.” Her silver scales were as hard as stone and growing tougher still. Dents and cracks in her natural armor made from the battle with Khal Drogo’s Khalasar during the previous day were healing already, the wounds were self-cauterized and proto scales were growing to fill the gaps.  _A dragon’s healing factor is formidable._ Jon thought with a measure of awe.

He pulled his water-skin from the side pouch built into her saddle. The skin emptied before Jon’s thirst could truly be quenched. He frowned. His meal of salted beef had only made the thirst worse. Packing light to save weight in battle had made sense at the time but the lack of supplies guaranteed the need to stop in Volantis for his journey. Syraxes could hunt all of her meals and his dragon could even drink sea water to sate her thirst.

Smooth clay met his fingertips when he reached in the saddle pouch. He pulled out the small urn. It was made of simple red clay, simple, without design. A thick bowed string and circular cover sealed the ashes from the elements. _All that is left of you. You deserved better._

Elaerys was of the Old Blood, and both the scions of the Freehold and the Targaryens cremated their dead. In death, it was the only thing he had not failed her in.

_“If it is a boy, I want to name him Aemon.” Jon whispered._

_“Aemon? Not Aegon? I thought that was the only name you Targaryens knew.”_

_He laughed. “Very clever. But no, Aemon is my great uncle on the wall. He’s over a hundred years old and my father says he’s among the smartest men he’s ever known”_

_“Well, let us hope our son inherits his mother’s or his great uncle’s wits.”_

_“Not his fathers?” Jon grinned._

_Elaerys tugged a strand of his hair. “No, you’re too pretty to be clever.” She sealed his protest with a kiss._

_After they parted Jon asked. “And if it is a girl?”_

_“Daenys.” Elaerys answered without pause._

_“After the dreamer?” Jon asked surprised._

_Elaerys nodded, her eyes twinkled under the light of the fire and her hands traced the barely there bump at her midsection. She looked at him and held his gaze with an intense stare that made him burn for her. “Without her, your house would be among the ashes. Our child will herald a new beginning, just as Daenys did.”_

Jon scowled at the memory and stuffed the urn back into the pouch. Despite what the songs said, vengeance did make him feel better, but it simply didn’t bring Elaerys back. He dressed quickly and wrapped a dark kerchief around his head to cover himself from the sun. Hours spent on dragon’s back under the sun led to fantastically painful burns that he sought to avoid.

He strapped Judgement to his back and then mounted Syraxes. The she dragon was already moving, and Jon had to scramble to tie his legs to the saddle before they took to the air with a single powerful snap of her wings.

The coast was a least a hundred miles away and it was another couple hundred until Volantis. Faster it would have been to fly straight to the city, but Jon had yet to master navigating on dragon’s back and so following the coastline was the most reliable way to ensure that they wouldn’t end up horribly lost. Syraxes could fly far swifter than any bird so the detour would only cost an extra hour.

They would likely reach Volantis before mid-day. The daylight would give Jon time to plan his approach to the city. Flying over the black walls was one option but he was hesitant to do just that. Volantis was built well over two thousand years ago as an outpost for the Freehold. The black walls were made of fused black dragonstone, harder than steel or diamond and two hundred feet high. The Valyrians had lined the black wall with battlements, ballista and scorpions. The scions of the Old Blood manned their walls with an army of slave soldiers who ensured what lay behind the black walls would never been sacked.

He was loathed to test whether the discontent of Elaerys’ father had spread to the other families of the Old Blood. The Honorro’s were well connected, tracing their rise to power all the way to the century of blood. They had fallen out of power in the centuries past and Elaerys’ father was determined to restore their prominence. Elaerys’ marriage to the son of a Lyseni magister was a piece of her father’s plan that Jon had inadvertently thwarted.

Elaerys was the youngest of twelve siblings from her father’s third wife. Jon had only met three of her siblings himself, but if the rest of her family shared Maelyx’s opinion of Jon then he knew it would be a short, bitter journey. _I owe it to them to at least try and bring some peace._

Volantis was not the only stop on his journey. Jon was convinced that there had to be some greater force driving his visions. Why would he be granted access to the past if there was not some reason to be discerned? _The past is already written… but perhaps there is some detail that is useful for the future._

Indeed, there had to be. He had learned sorcery that was long since forgotten, arts that would reestablish his family’s power and perhaps propel them even higher than they had ever been before.  

It wasn’t just change for his family that he sought but for the citizens of their kingdom as well. The Valyrian legacy was stained by the practice of slavery but Valyria had made more advancement in any field of learning than their precursors and the societies long after them. Their citizens lived longer and had more time for leisure than those of the modern day. Even their commoners learned to read, in schools not tied to elitist organizations like the Citadel in Oldtown.  

Before Jon could make the changes that he wanted, it was imperative that he learned how it all ended. The Septons had called the Doom the will of the gods, thinking back on the monstrosity that he had seen ravaging the city, Jon considered it as one possibility. Though the Valyrians themselves wielded magic that the men of today would consider power reserved for their gods. It was just as likely the Valyrians experimented with some powerful sorcery that engulfed their empire when they lost control of it.

Jon’s greatest hope was that following the pathway of Aurion would grant some insight. The Lost Emperor led a host of thirty thousand from Qohor to reclaim the peninsula. His actions suggested he expected some sort of battle when they arrived. Aurion had split his host, sending a portion down the demon roads that connected Volantis to Montarys, and he raised a fleet of ships at the city of Elyria, which despite the proximity of the city to the ruined peninsula, had survived the cataclysm.

Elyria might have records of Aurion’s journey that didn’t exist in other cities. It was a farfetched plan but Jon couldn’t think of any other options. The fear of something sinister stirring in the ruins was a feeling that would not abate. _I need to know and it is safer than going into the smoking sea again._

Syraxes made good time and they were soon exiting the Dothraki Sea. He could see the coastline in the horizon, followed by a dazzling unbroken line of blue.

They passed over the river Rhoyne, and the river city Selhorys in the direction towards the orange shore. Jon had Syraxes fly high above, among the few clouds in the sky to mask their presence as much as possible. Any onlookers on the ground would likely mistake them for a bird. Those armed with Myrish lenses would know the truth of the matter but Jon was counting on confusion and speed to reach Volantis before his destination could be discerned.

High above the ground Jon couldn’t help but feel a sense of Euphoria. He knew why his ancestors had tried so hard to bring dragons back into the world. There was no greater feeling than soaring among the clouds on the back of a beast of legend. An unadulterated sense of power came with flying on the back of a dragon. The wind through his cloak, the heat radiating from Syraxes to combat the chill, the sight of the town’s people, so small and distant that they looked like insects. He felt higher than any king. Even the vibration from the strokes of Syraxes’ wings brought him joy. Jon tightened his grip on her reins and leaned forward on her saddle.

Syraxes responded to the unspoken command and increased her speed. They entered a fast, shallow dive right through a cloud. Jon laughed as Syraxes summersaulted, rising and diving at will.  Every day she grew stronger, larger and faster. Syraxes loved nothing more than to show him her progress.

Already his dragon could fly so fast that the wind stung his eyes or so high that he struggled for breath, occasionally Syraxes needed to be reminded of his limits and after ten minutes of her aerial aerobatics, Jon pleaded with her through their bond to fly normally. She snorted in frustration but he could feel a tendril of amusement.

From this height it was easy to see how densely populated Essos was. Selhorys was considered a town by the Essosi but this ‘town’ was bigger than King’s Landing. Civilization stretched along the river like a second snake with farm land stretching for miles outward. Away from the city center, the settlements narrowed, barely straying from the banks of the wide river.

Nearest to the eastern banks, the river muddied and turned a dull brown but the water west and to the center was a dull blue. East of the Rhoyne put a wall of water between the town and the Dothraki sea.  The horselords had yet to figure out how to ride their horses across water, and so the river provided a natural defense.

It was strange seeing the Rhoyne so peaceful when the last time he had been present here, the Rhoyne was engulfed in a war between its city states and the Freehold. A thousand years ago the banks were red with blood and the river corrupted by bloated bodies floating in its current. Today, he could make out hundreds of river galleys filled with goods traveling in the direction of Volantis. Syraxes moved so quickly that the ships looked as if they were standing still.

By mid-day, they were already flying over the last river city Volon Therys. Several weeks of travel by river and months on foot had been covered in hours. Part of Jon wanted to keep flying east. There was a whole word to the east that few Westerosi, even the dragon riding Targaryens had ever seen.

It took two years by ship to reach the Jade Sea, ships that would fill with exotic wares and sell their load at Volantis to make the captains and crew rich beyond belief. Corlys Velayron, the Seasnake, had done just such and became the richest man in Westeros. Jon had no ship but in two years, Syraxes could be large enough to carry as much as a small galley. It was tempting. Tyrion could handle the construction of the temple on his own; Sam would likely find himself a position in the court, Gerion would love the tales of the far east and Jaime would merely shake his head. The call of home was far too strong however. Jon missed his mother’s smiles and his father’s wisdom. He missed training with Egg and surely hoped that his brother hadn’t slacked on his training. He missed Visenya spouting random facts and the chorus of her and Daenerys’ voices. His fingers hadn’t done much but grip a sword so his skills with a harp had likely waned. Hopefully, the two would forgive him for that. He even missed Rhaenys. His hot tempered elder sister was one of the few who could ignite his temper. His father called them Fire and Ice. Destined to clash but they were dragons and as such tied by blood. But most of all he missed Daenerys. The woman who would have been his wife.

His time in the North had brought some conflict surrounding his feelings about his young aunt. It was hard to think of Dany as his aunt for she was nine months younger than him and as much as a younger sister to him as Visenya.  

Theon Greyjoy teased him mercilessly about Jon only desiring women of the same seed as him and Jon had tried denying it. He even kissed Sansa to prove Theon wrong, but Theon only laughed harder and pointed out that they were first cousins. The situation only got worse when Arya demanded he kiss her as well, so Sansa couldn’t one up her. He had tried explaining to his eight-year-old cousin that she was too young for kissing but Arya lunged at him, bloodying his nose in attempt to meet his lips. Even his cousin Robb worried about Jon’s preferences when Jon had the cook in Winterfell make lemon cakes for Sansa’s birthday.

_“Jon… you’re not wanting to marry Sansa, are you?” His cousin looked almost scared to ask._

_“No Robb. Just doing a nice deed. You should try it for a change.” Robb didn’t rise to the barb. In fact, he looked almost relived. “Even if I was, what would be so bad about it?” He hadn’t ever thought of Sansa in that way.  Sure, she was pretty, but she listened to Septa Mordane and her mother too much and had a tendency to talk about songs as if they were the true history of the Seven Kingdoms. Her constant gossip with Jeyne Poole also grated on his nerves. Perhaps if Arya was older then Robb would have a cause to worry. For Arya was fierce, wild and carefree, she reminded him of his mother and home._

_“Well with your pretty hair, I was scared you’d upstage my sister at her wedding.” Robb japed. Jon growled and chased Robb throughout Winterfell. Their direwolf pups followed, nipping at their heels._

_Aegon had taken the taunts in stride and boasted that he could have any women in Winterfell. Theon called his challenge, and the four of them snuck down to Wintertown and pooled their coin to buy Aegon time with Ros. Egg was too nervous to do it sober and so they all got blistering drunk, forgetting the original purpose the coin._

_Lady Cat was angry at their behavior and brought them in front of their uncle Ned for their punishment. His uncle had laughed at their tale, harder than Jon had ever seen before and then they were sentenced to stable work for that week. It would have lasted longer until they started flinging horseshit at each other._

In the end, all of Jon’s protests were for naught. What was a man supposed to do when the most beautiful woman in the world was your sister-aunt? When said woman was fierce, quick witted and confident. When she could ride a horse better than you ever could, speak High Valyrian as well as an Arch Maester and looked as good in leathers as she did a dress. The fact that she was related to him, his father’s sister, did not repulse him. It drew him to her as much as her silver hair and lilac eyes did. She was nine months younger than him, and they had joked the gods had intended to make them as a pair but had forgotten her somewhere along the way. 

Daenerys was so pretty that it almost hurt to look at her. His heart had threatened to burst out of his chest when he first laid eyes on her after returning south from Winterfell. He would have never been able to speak an intelligible word to Daenerys if it weren’t for his little sister. Visenya was the one who suggested that he learn the high harp because Daenerys loved when their father played his own.

Surprisingly, music calmed his nerves and the added benefit was that Daenerys was a fantastic dancer. Eventually, Jon was able to find his tongue and hold a conversation, without his sister acting as the emissary.

He spent months with Daenerys, first in the Red Keep and then on Dragonstone, while Aegon joined Rhaenys in Dorne. Their first kiss was shared on that island and then several hundred more. Dragonstone’s court was barren compared to the Red Keep and it was easy to sneak around their chaperones. Ser Jaime was the laxest of the Kingsguard, at least if Ser Arthur wasn’t present, and the man cared not what Jon did with his time, so as long as he maintained his training and wasn’t in any danger of being killed. Still he and Daenerys hid their romance, even when he asked Daenerys to marry him in Aegon’s garden.

Their fear had always been that if their affections were discovered, his father would separate them. Jon knew of his grandfather’s legacy, and the other Targaryens who were accused of madness. Septon Chayle, Winterfell’s Septon, told Jon it was incest that gave his family the propensity to go mad. Septa Mordane told Jon it was in the Kingdom’s best interest if their family ended their practice of incest. Even Maester Luwin spoke of how the Targaryen’s legacy was likely stained by the effects of incest.

Daenerys was convinced that Rhaegar would be more concerned about their happiness rather than the unfounded conclusions of the faith and the Maesters. And so, when they left Dragonstone, Jon had worked up the courage to ask his father for Daenerys’ hand.

When his father refused his request to marry Daenerys, stating that it was already planned for Jon to wed Myrcella Tully, Jon was furious. It was the closest that he had ever come to hitting his father. He had stayed his hand after council from Ser Arthur on the importance of duty.

On the road to Casterly Rock, Jon had wanted to hate Myrcella, to ignore her and prove a point to his father that even a king could be wrong, that Daenerys was the only one who could bring him any happiness. Samwell had told Jon that misdirecting his anger onto Myrcella was unfair to her, as she had just as much choice in the matter as Jon did.

When Jon met Myrcella, he knew that he couldn’t hate her. She was shy and sweet, quick to smile or laugh even when what he said wasn’t meant to be funny. His harp had been left in King’s Landing but there was a harp in Casterly Rock and Jon spent his time between training and his studies to play the harp. It was only meant to calm his mind but whenever he played, Myrcella and her cousins Rosamund and Joy, as well as a dozen other girls formed an audience to listen.

Still, Jon had jumped at the chance to join Gerion and Tyrion on their journey to find Brightroar. Convincing Sam to sneak out of the Rock with him had been a challenge. An even greater one was convincing Jaime to not drag them back when the Kingsguard had followed them to Gerion’s ship.

The decision to leave wasn’t an easy one, but it was the one that he made once he had learned of Daenerys’ betrothal. Even then Jon knew there was wisdom behind his father’s decision. Wedding Myrcella would appease her powerful grandfather, a man even his father was wary of displeasing. But the thought of Daenerys wedding someone else, against her will no less, was something Jon couldn’t stand to endure. Aiding Gerion in reclaiming the secrets of Valyria was a longshot, that he knew. But doing so would do more for his family than a political marriage ever could.

The point where the turquoise waters of the Rhoyne met the dark waters of the summer sea soon became visible. Straddling the great river was the massive city of Volantis. It was a sprawling mess of a city on the west and heavily ordered on the east, each half larger and the west alone more populous than that of King’s Landing. The western half was the more recent addition to the city but even it was older than any city in Westeros, save for Oldtown. From his height above, the western half seemed to have no rhyme nor reason in its planning. Some streets pressed in so tight that the buildings seemed built on top of one another, others were wide, manicured and paved in stone. It was easy to tell where those with money frequented as there were sections of the city lined with gardens and ornate buildings lined with stone. Palaces sprawled across acres of land with enclosed courtyards guarded by gargoyles and slave soldiers. Those sections were small paradises in a sea of chaos.

Connecting the western half of the city was the Long Bridge of Volantis. The bridge was an incredible reminder of how far Valyria’s engineering prowess had risen. It was over three miles long and over a hundred feet wide. Made of fused black Dragonstone with massive piers anchoring the bridge into the Rhoyne, the structure was unquestionably Valyrian. There was a slight curve to its shape and the outer stone of the pillars was scaled, giving the structure a serpentine appearance. The bridge narrowed dramatically as it reached its eastern end and was only wide enough so that two carts could pass through the gateway. 

His breath hitched as he took in the eastern half of the city. East Volantis had been built almost two thousand years ago, when the freehold was firmly in their days of expansion and conquest. It was older, less populated, yet far richer than the western half. Whereas western Volantis grew naturally with the increasing demands of the population, Eastern Volantis was meticulously shaped and each detail planned beforehand. Massive public gardens dominated the city, landscaped so that they formed giant green outlines of exotic beasts. Pools of shimmering water interspersed throughout the gardens formed the eyes of the beasts. The Rhoyne penetrated the city in the form of narrow canals that were nearly as numerous as the roads. Sitting on hill high above the basin of the city, and rising like a glimmering fist of red and orange was The Temple of the Lord of Light.

It was three times larger than the Great Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing and so old that the date of its founding had been forgotten. Against the greens, blues and blacks of the city, the temple stood out like a flame. It was an enormity of pillars, buttresses, bridges, domes and towers that flowed into each other as if they were constructed from one colossal rock. Colored in a hundred hues of red, yellow, gold and orange that dissolved into each other, the same as clouds in a sunset.

Jon and Syraxes were high enough that his eyes could only make out the larger details of the structure. He had never been near the temple during his last stay in Volantis but a few of its towers were tall enough that the tops could be seen over the black walls encasing the domain of the old blood. Out of curiosity, he reached across his bond with Syraxes and peered at the temple through his dragon’s eyes.

Her eyes were so sharp that the world was magnetized. Thousands of feet in the air and he could still see the individual bricks of the building and the facial features of the slave soldiers who guarded the temple. The warriors of the fiery hand were tattooed on their faces like all the Volantene slaves; writhing flames were their insignia. Each wore ornate armor over orange robes and wielded spears with points shaped similarly to their flame tattoos. Every warrior was male, with ancestry that hailed from all over the continent, from those whose silver hair could pass them as the old blood to those who if they wore braids would be at home in a Khalasar. It took Jon several moments to realize that each of the soldiers were staring into the sky.

Syraxes flew high enough that they were barely visible from the ground and the membrane of her wings blended with the backdrop of the sky. Still the warriors scanned the air as if they were expecting something to appear. Jon frowned and bid Syraxes to climb higher.  He didn’t want them being spotted until he worked out where to land.

The Honorro’s were behind the Black Walls of Old Volantis. The walls rose two hundred feet high and were made of fused black dragonstone that was harder than diamond. They hid a city within a city, thick enough that twelve chariots could ride abreast, as they did after the election of the three ruling Triarchs. Behind the walls were a collection of palaces, courtyards, towers, temples and cloister, all done in the style of the freehold. Jon never felt more like a dragonlord of old than he did now, hovering over a city that belonged to the scions of Valyria.

Elaerys’ family resided in a manse that housed a palace nearly as large as the Red Keep. Flying his dragon directly behind the walls could be seen as a sign of aggression. The Valyrians had built Old Volantis as a fortress city, meant to withstand the might of the fallen Rhoynar and the ruling entity of the Old Blood had not allowed the Old City’s defense to go into the disarray. Along the battlements of the wall were massive ballista, capable of launching bolts taller than himself. Prowling along the expansive wall and interspersed throughout Old Volantis was an army of slave soldiers known as the Tiger Cloaks.

The last thing Jon wanted was to risk Syraxes if the alarm was raised. Even if she were older and larger he might have second guessed making an abrupt entrance. _I wonder if the Conqueror ever flew Balerion above Old Volantis and decided Westeros was easier to conquer._

Fused black dragonstone was even resistant to the high temperature of dragon fire. Aegon the Conqueror would have needed a far more massive army along with his sister-wives and their dragons to take the city. Jon figured that he needed some sort of invitation to remain on the safe side.

He steered Syraxes away from the city and they followed the western coastline. Along the western coast, between two mouths of the Rhoyne were a string of cliffs with caves that overlooked the sea. They were difficult to access on foot and isolated enough to guarantee some privacy.  

Elaerys’ father had sent men who had chased after their party until they disappeared into the Smoking Sea. Even after they first left the Smoking Sea, Elaerys went by aliases to remain hidden. Jon knew that tales were spreading across the continent about him and his dragon, and word of their actions in the Dothraki sea would soon reach the free cities.

No flow of information could fly faster than dragon flight so he knew that news of their battle with the Dothraki wouldn’t precede their arrival. _It would be smarter to return here with my own guard, maybe even an army… but I owe it to you Elaerys. You deserve to be with your family._

Syraxes dropped in altitude as they drew further from the city and its surrounding settlements. It wasn’t long before they flew low on the coastline, scanning the cliffs for a place to land. The cave they chose was deep enough that Syraxes could disappear inside. Stones smoothed by dragonfire and a scattering of bones that looked to belong to marine animals, marked the cave as a lair of an ancient dragon.

The outside of the cave was wide enough that Jon could train without fear of falling and it connected to a narrow pathway that traced down the cliffside.

The pathway abruptly gave way to a fifty-foot drop. Beneath them was a narrow beach of pure white sand that was caressed by strong waves of the hightide. Their cave was only accessible by air, unless someone made the vertical climb up the cliff face.

Jon climbed off Syraxes back and quickly relieved her of the saddle. He knew she liked wearing it because it meant that he would join her in flight, but the saddle also grew uncomfortable after hours of wearing it and between her hard scales and the stone, even the tough leather could fray. Once he had the saddle removed, the dragon curled up, resting her head on the forelimbs of her wings. Large amber eyes watched as he unclasped his cloak and set Judgement between his legs to polish.

Valyrian steel swords required less upkeep than any normal blade. The blades didn’t rust or lose their edge, even after hundred of years or thousands of battles. Only dust and gore could mar their image, so Jon abandoned his whetstone in favor of a polishing rag. It was a habit that he inherited from his uncle, Lord Stark, who would often sit in the Godswood for hours, polishing House Stark’s ancestral great sword, Ice, until the blade shown as bright as its name sake.

His mind went over how he would approach the city. Flying low over the western half of the city would likely cause a panic but it was safer than flying over the eastern half. Perhaps, he and Syraxes could land on the long bridge and walk to the gates of the black wall but the Tiger Cloaks patrolled the Long Bridge in force and Jon didn’t want to gamble on their reaction either. Landing with Syraxes was the surest way to gain admittance behind the black walls but it also made his dragon the most vulnerable.

Syraxes outright snorted in disapproval when he considered leaving her behind. She was protective to a fault and the thought of them being separated was unacceptable. If Ghost were here, then his dragon would have been far more amiable to the plan. His direwolf had long since gained the respect of his dragon and was trusted by her with Jon’s protection. Briefly, Jon considered landing at the Red Temple. It was directly adjacent to the Black Walls and guarded by the warriors of the fiery hand rather than the Tiger Cloaks. They were no less formidable of warriors, but the priest and priestesses of the Red Faith shared an obsession with fire. Syraxes was closes to fire made flesh, even her resting form heated the cool cave. Their obsession could make them an ally.

Elaerys had once told him of the disdain that some of the Old Blood had for the Red Faith though none would voice their derision in front of the Tiger Cloaks for the order had a large number of worshippers of R’hllor in its ranks.

Creating allies out of the high priests would shield them from any backlash the Honorro’s could generate but Jon hesitated to commit to the decision.  Of the hundreds of religions in Essos, The Red Faith was the most pervasive and the only one that truly scared him. The Seven spoke of piety, the Father’s wisdom and the Mother’s mercy. The black goat of Qohor demanded daily blood sacrifices, sailors prayed to the Merling King for fair weather and calm seas, and the Dothraki spoke of their tireless horse god. Yet, he had seen even the most pious of men, no matter which deity they paid fealty to, suffer or prosper as much as men who rejected the notion of Gods entirely. The Red Faith was different. They spoke of a god of fire, smoke and shadow who made vengeful demands to punish heretics. The entity that consumed Valyria could have very well been R’hllor himself and Jon wanted no part of a god that wiped out tens of millions in a single night.

Jon decided he would announce his presence and desire to talk and then retreat to a location where they could not be ambushed. Once an envoy was sent by the Old Blood, Jon knew that would be the closest guarantee to their safety that he would receive from Volantis. The rules of hospitality were as sacred to those of the Old Blood as guest rights were to Northerners.

He polished his blade until it gleamed, red-grey, even unbloodied the blade had a sinister, blood thirsty look. _Woe to our enemies._ A voice whispered. He sheathed the blade and laid the scabbard on the wall of the cave. Jon walked to the cave entrance and scanned the skies. Scouting with Syraxes was far too conspicuous and he wanted her well rested, in case there was trouble on the morrow. A sea bird could fly for miles and their sharp eyes were ideal to search for defensible hills. He spotted a sea-raptor, a huge bird with gold and black feathers and wings that were near fifteen feet wide. It floated lazily in the upstream, hunting for food in the waters below.

Once he captured the image of the bird in his mind, Jon closed his eyes and expanded his mental barriers. Connecting with animals other than Ghost and later Syraxes was always difficult for Jon.

Robb had a far easier time of the whole affair and was the first to connect with his direwolf, not only in his dreams but consciously. Other animals came easier to him as well, stags, boars and even an aurochs.  Though, Lord Reed cautioned against staying in the mind of a beast other than their wolves, less let they let too much of the creature into their being. Like Arya, Jon found it easier to warg predators rather than prey animals. Though his wild cousin used her ability to warg cats and terrorize the kitchen staff. Sansa had trouble connecting with any animals other than Lady, though she did have a snow owl she had grown used to. Bran though…, Bran was in a league of his own.

Complicating matters was the distance between Jon and the bird. It was easiest to skinchange when you could stare into the creature’s eyes. Eyes were doorways into the soul. Doors could be opened willingly or required less force to break through.

The first brush of his mind against the eagles’ own was painful. It recoiled from his touch, balking at the attempt to wrest control. If you could form a relation with the animal, establish trust between man and beast then connecting was far easier. With no trust, no established relationship then you needed to dominate the animal’s mind with brute force.

Predators were generally cleverer than prey and required more effort to break but there was more familiarity between a predator’s mind and a man’s. The familiarity gave Jon insight into the cracks of the bird’s mental armor. It fought him fiercely and put up an admirable struggle. It was the King of the skies, smaller birds chirped in fear when it flew overhead, ground-bound creatures buried into their hovels and waited. Even those of the sea feared its talons. Freedom was its currency, its entire being. And now the bird was under Jon’s will.

The bird’s struggle was another conformation to Jon that Syraxes was safe from similar attempts to seize control. Even when she was days old, her mind felt titanic. It was shaped like a fortress and her defenses were weapons themselves. Jon had warged her, yes, but the blood of his father gave him the chance to truly bond with her. Without it, she may have crushed his mind and made him simple.

 He scouted the landscape for hours, taking care to make mental note of every village and military outpost. The land in the heart of Volantene influence was rich and heavily populated, as well as heavily defended. Every ten or so miles, the Volantene’s constructed ringforts manned with soldiers ready to defend against the threat of the Dothraki. The forts were simple stone structures, elevated to serve as watchtowers and defendable gathering points. They allowed for an extremely quick response to any threat, a detail that Jon added to his calculation.

By the time the sun had set, Jon had found their desired meeting place. It was near ten miles from the city, in the middle of a field, between two outposts spaced near eight miles apart. The nearest village was miles down one of the many child rivers of the Rhoyne that split the land. A long road led to the field and even without being in the sky, Jon and Syraxes would be able to see any approaching parties. There were no forests near to hide soldiers or heavy weaponry within and if the envoy came with the intent to attack, Jon would have Syraxes burn them with ease.

Once he committed the location to memory, he released his grip on the eagle, to both of their relief. With Ghost, distance was meaningless. His connection to Syraxes was always present but distance muted their bond. Similar to having to shout at a distant companion rather than whisper to one near.

His body sagged from the effort and Jon fell against the hard flank of his dragon. His stomach rumbled its hunger and he pulled the last of the salted beef from its pouch. Dried fruits and nuts added to the meal and he washed it all down with warm water. Another benefit to a dragon was the heat from her dragonfire could quickly cleanse water for drinking. The meal didn’t sate him entirely, but it was enough to sleep contentedly with.

It felt like only an hour passed when Jon was raised from sleep. Syraxes’ sudden shifting paired with her agitated growl had Jon leaping to his feet, Judgement drawn. The light from the dawning sun had yet to pierce the cave but there was enough light to illuminate the cliff edge and the world beyond the mouth of the cave.

Standing on the ledge was a man in elaborate red armor, tiger stripes adorned his cheeks. He was weaponless, kneeling and making no motion to venture further into the cave. His eyes however stared into the darkness that blanketed Jon and Syraxes, they locked eyes with Jon’s.

_How did he get up here? Did he climb? How did I or Syraxes not hear him?!_ “Who are you?” Jon commanded. Behind him Syraxes’ hackled raised, the temperature in the cave spiked dramatically as fire readied in her maw.

Despite the threat, the man’s answering voice was even. “I mean you no harm, Prince Jaehaerys of the Sunset Kingdoms. I am an envoy sent by the order of High Priestess Kinvara.”

“I know no Kinvara. What business does she have with me?” Jon asked. His muscle were tense. He counted the strides needed to close the distance. _Three maybe four if he’s quick._ Syraxes’ flames were swifter, but Jon didn’t know if there were others down on the beach watching. They were other caves in the cliff face, this man could be a scout and dragonfire could give away their position.

“You have not met as of yet. But Priestess Kinvara knows of you. She has preached of your arrival for some time and now requests an audience.” The slave soldier supplied. His face showed no fear at the sight of flames dancing between black, iron like teeth.

Jon wasn’t convinced. “And how does this priestess know of me?” _And how did she know where to find me?_

“Priestess Kinvara is quite skilled, Prince Jaehaerys. The true followers of our Lord know there is non-other on this plane who possess more wisdom.”

Jon breathed deep. _A non-answer if anything but what else can be expected of a zealot?_ Similar to the Unsullied of Astapor, Fiery Hand were chosen as children, indoctrinated in the faith of the fire god as much as they were trained in arms. “Very well, where is this Kinvara?”

The man’s stoic face then broke into a smile. “Outside, down on the beach, my Prince.”

“She’s here now?” Jon asked, surprised. _Could we have been sighted?_ Jon threw out the thought. Even if they had been spotted, none could have followed Jon and Syraxes to their cave with this accuracy.

“Yes, she has led us all here to meet you.”

Jon took a moment to digest the information. _It could be a trap.  And if it is, they will rue it._ “I will meet with this Kinvara. Stand to the side.”

The warrior’s smile grew wider and he rushed to follow Jon’s order. “Further, we need room. Unless you wish to be blown off the cliffside.” The warrior obeyed.

Jon quickly saddled Syraxes and then mounted the dragon in a single leap. He tied Judgement to his belt, loosely buckled his leg straps and then gripped her reins tightly. “ _Soves”_ He commanded.

Syraxes’ response was instant. She bounded forward with immense speed and then her claws found purchase in the stone, catapulting them out of the cave. Her wings tucked tight and they fell hundreds of feet in a second. Syraxes broke into a roll before they could hit the waves.

Jon grit his teeth. The move was aggressive and precautionary. No scorpion bolts flew and no arrows. He chanced a look at the beach.

Dawn light spilled over the horizon and the white sand suddenly grew bright. At least twenty figures were on the beach, ten of them in red and orange armor that formed hues of a sunset. At the front of the congregation was a figure garbed in red.

Jon and Syraxes landed twenty feet away from the group. Syraxes fixed a powerful stare on the onlookers while Jon unstrapped himself and slid from her saddle. He steeped in front of Syraxes who looked ready to bathe the beach in dragonfire.

The red robed figure was a woman. One of the most beautiful that Jon had ever laid eyes on. Her lips were full, and her eyes looked red as blood. “Kinvara?” He asked, ignoring her honorific.

The Priestess stepped forward, her face entirely without fear, even as Syraxes’ hackles rose, and the dragon lowered her head, so the bottom of her jaw was level with Jon’s shoulder. Syraxes’ eyes were narrowed and full of suspicion.

Kinvara drew closer and extended a hand. Jon watched, dumfounded as Syraxes first sniffed the offered hand and then let the priestess pat her muzzle.

Kinvara locked eyes with Jon. “Welcome your grace.” And then she turned to her entourage. “It is him. Our Lord’s champion. All hail the Great Emperor of the Dawn. “And then they knelt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Thanks to GOT88 for being the best beta.


	10. Scions of Old Valyria Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord's Champion?

**Jon**

“I believe you are mistaken, Priestess. I am a Prince not an Emperor. My father is King.” A light breeze rolled across the beach, billowing his cloak and the Priestess’s raven tresses. She stood and met his eyes while her entourage remained kneeling with their gazes turned downward. Most of them were warriors with tiger stripes or writhing flames on their cheeks.

Kinvara took a step closer, the distance between them became more intimate than Jon was comfortable with. The High Priestess’s robes were form fitting and only enhanced her allure. A choker of black metal sat above her deep cleavage, at its center was a figure of a man dancing in the flames. Jon forced his eyes back to the Priestess’s face. On her lips was a knowing smirk. “As of now you are simply a Prince, but I have seen you rising higher than any King, including your father. This is barely the beginning.”

“Then your visions are wrong. I am the second son and my brother will be king after my father. A second son is his brother’s champion not a ruler.”

Kinvara’s expression could at best be described as amused, as if Jon’s words were a childlike interpretation of how the world worked. “Do you know why I have earned the title of The Flame of Truth? My visions, when they come, always speak the truth. And my visions of you have never been clearer. I’ve seen you in the flames fighting and leading your people to the dawn.”

“Fighting what exactly? And leading an army where?” Jon questioned. Perhaps, it was her confidence or the spectacle that she was presenting, but Jon was interested. _Perhaps, there is a grain of truth to what she speaks._

Kinvara’s answer was appropriately cryptic. “There will be a war, a battle between light and shadow, fire and ice and you’ll be at its center as will your family.”

“Who is this war between? Who are we fighting and where? Give me answers, not more riddles and maybe I will take stock in your words.”

“We?” She questioned. “You mean yourself and your family.” She shook her head and then her hand rose to trace his jawline. Her fingers were as elegant as the rest of her, long with well-manicured nails. They left a trail of heat wherever they touched him. “So young to have so much ahead of you. And yet even now I can feel the power roll off you. So much potential.”

Jon blushed at the intimate gesture and inwardly cursed at his body’s desire to lean into the Priestess’s touch. It had been a long while since he had felt the touch of a woman. This time Jon did step back, bumping into the hard scales of Syraxes’s chest. His dragon watched their exchange with equal parts interest and amusement.

“I’m…” He started and then faltered. _A simple touch and I feel like a green boy again._ He took a moment to gather his wits. “Again, my duty and loyalty is to my family. Syraxes and I will defend my father’s crown and one day, my brother’s. We have no intention of forging our own.”

“Your loyalty is admirable, I must admit but I have to warn you to be careful of who you choose to share your gifts of power. Those who taste power often desire more of it. That desire can breed treachery, even amongst family.”

Jon frowned at her words. _Aegon will always be my greatest friend. Daenerys, Visenya and even Rhaenys haven’t ever been angry at me for longer than a fortnight. My grandmother, mother, father, even Viserys… we’d never go to war._ “I appreciate your concern, but it is not necessary. My family has always been united and will remain so when I return to them.”

This time Kinvara’s smile was wistful. “If it were only that simple. United with dragons once again, your family presents the greatest threat against the forces of the Great Other but divided and your family becomes its own greatest enemy.  Thus, the servants of darkness will make it their priority for the dragons to dance once again.”

Jon’s heart hitched. “You lie. What would we fight over? I have no intention of usurping my father nor brother.”

“Let us speak more of this, on our way to the city. You and your dragon require an escort and what better is there than the High Priestess of the Lord of Light. None will dare impede our progress and my blessing will guarantee your safe passage into the dominion of the Old Blood.”

“How did you-“Before Jon could finish his question Kinvara interrupted.

“The flames remember? I knew that you’d be here this day, land in these caves, that we would speak on this beach and all of this would precede your meeting with the new Triarchy.”

_New triarchy?_ He wondered. It had always baffled him that every few years the entire city ground to a halt to elect its three rulers. The date of the election season had escaped him. He though of the warriors at the Red Temple. “Is that why the warriors guarding the Red Temple looked skyward as if they were expecting someone? Did you announce my arrival?”

Kinvara’s gaze darkened momentarily.  “I am not the only one of our faith who can gain some clarity from the flames. Though that is of no matter, they will not trouble us. Let us speak more in private, your dragon can fly above us until we reach the city. Then it would be best if you mounted and rode her through the streets.” Kinvara held out her arm in invitation.

Surprisingly, Syraxes didn’t object when he considered the Priestess’s proposal. His dragon was simply anxious to be airborne again. _If Syraxes trust Kinvara enough to believe that this is not a ploy then perhaps I should to._ He hooked his arm through Kinvara’s and walked with the Priestess and her party to a group of horses and carriages partially hidden by a grove of trees. Syraxes circled above them.

Kinvara’s carriage was surprisingly plain. The carriage belonging to the High Septon in King’s Landing was a gilded monstrosity of gold, finely crafted wood with an assortment of gems that adorned the eyes of the Seven who were engraved on the exterior. Kinvara’s carriage in comparison was akin to what a minor noble family might have in their arsenal, though it was large enough that it required two horses to pull it.

The horses were draped in red and gold with writhing flames decorating their drapery and the banners of the dark carriage. Their escort rushed to mount their steeds while Jon followed Kinvara into the carriage.

Dawn’s light just pierced through the trees and the carriage’s drawn curtains, dimly lighting the interior. The interior was appropriately done in red and just large enough to seat four though Kinvara settled just across from Jon, so close that he had to open his legs, so her knees could fit between his own. He unclasped his sword belt and leant Judgement against the far wall. _This close, the sword is practically useless._ If the situation went awry, then he would have to make do with his hands and maybe the knife in his boot.

Kinvara’s smile was nearly disarming. “Relax Your Highness, our horses don’t travel nearly as fast as your dragon. It will be sometime before we reach the city.”

Jon let his back touch the rest but the tension in his shoulders didn’t abate. His boots and armor were stained with mud and bits of blood, completely at odds with the plush interior of the cabin. The comfort of the carriage did the opposite of relaxing him. For months all he had known was the feel of rough ground, or a saddle, first horses and the occasional sand steed, and then Syraxes’s own. It was disconcerting to sit on plush cushions and to be carted around like cargo.

The Priestess must have noticed his discomfort. “You’re far too tense for this early in the day and you will need your energy; today is an important one.”

“Something you’ve seen in the flames?” Jon asked sardonically. He fixed a piercing stare on the Priestess.  _Perhaps without her audience, she can drop the theatrics!_

Kinvara pursed her lips and met his gaze. “Despite all that is evident, your doubt persists. Why? You know at the very least, there is some truth to my words and yet you still mock the truth I bring.”

“Riddles and vague warnings of events yet to pass are all you offer. I’d be a fool to trust you.”

“And yet here you are.” She shifted in her seat and one of her heeled sandals fell to the floor. Jon’s leg stiffened as she brushed her toes against his calf. “Surely you must have some faith, otherwise you would have flown your dragon behind the black walls without our escort.”

_What game are you playing?_ Jon wondered. “I don’t doubt you have some power. I doubt you have the level of power that you believe you possess. Magic often makes men… and women believe they are capable of things far beyond them. For example: interpreting the will of the divine, predicting the future and claiming a man will be an emperor when he has no desire to be one.”

“That’s where you are mistaken. My abilities are not due to my own innate ability. I owe all my power to our Lord R’hllor. I am merely his conduit and occasionally his voice.”

“And yet you call yourself the Flame of Truth. Is that not a boast of your own personal power?” Jon asked.

“It takes many years of rigorous training to be able to receive our Lord’s gifts and even then, some have a greater aptitude at interpreting visions that the Lord of Light grants us than others. My title is merely an acknowledgement of the journey that I have taken to hear our Lord’s will.”

Jon took a moment to study her. Her gaze didn’t flicker. _If she’s playing an act, then she is a very good mummer._ “Then tell me of these servants of darkness that seek to divide my family.”

Kinvara sighed. “The Great Other’s reach is comparable to our Lord’s. His servants are of many forms and faces. The visions that I see aren’t the clearest and I can only speculate on their meaning. I’ve seen a twisting form of thorns, claws and talons strangling a many-headed-dragon whose own heads tear at one another.”

Jon scoffed. “Is that all? What would help me is to know of plots and the players behind them, the logistics of the wars you say are coming. Who is leading which army? Are there any attempted assassinations and if so what are the casualties? Everything you have given me so far is open to interpretation. Even if I did believe you, what would I do with any of this? Either your powers are overstated or your withholding information.”

“The future has yet to be written and the further you look, the higher the chance becomes that your vision is merely a set of possibilities. Perhaps, some form of it will pass and perhaps the circumstances preceding rule out an event from ever happening. Those who claim to know the future with absolute certainty are either fools or con artists.” Kinvara stated. It was subtle, but Jon witnessed the Priestess clench her fists.

“And just what are you doing? You’ve called me an Emperor, you’ve stated that my family will likely be torn apart and you speak of a war to end it all. Is that not looking into the far future? By your very words, these events might not happen at all. What then?”

Kinvara took a deep breath before answering. “Each day the Sun rises in the east and sets in the west. We have no guarantee that when the Sun passes the horizon, the cycle will persist. Yet, we set our entire lives to this rhythm. When our eyes close at night, we know that we will wake to the dawning light and that light will stave off an eternity of darkness. You are that dawning light, Your Highness. I might not know every detail of how these events will come to pass but I do know that you will be at the epicenter of these world defining conflicts.”

Jon was silent for several moments, digesting Kinvara’s mantra. “Why me?” he asked.

“Nothing in this world is guaranteed. Everything requires sacrifice. A champion to save us from the eternal night required the sacrifice of thousands. Your birth is the union of two ancient bloodlines. Legacy and promise flow through your veins like non-other.”

_The dangers of religious fanaticism. “_ Have you spread word of me to the entire city?” He could imagine the consequences now. _What would my father do?_

“I have not. The people need to see you before your legend can spread. They will see the man who brought dragons back. With my warriors as an escort and myself by your side, the people will know that you have R’hllor’s favor.”

Tying himself to a faith he didn’t believe in wasn’t something Jon was keen on doing. _Still isn’t this what I considered doing? I might not believe her but if she can ensure that I can safely deliver Elaerys’s ashes then what choice do I have?_

“You cannot do it all alone, Your Highness. There will be obstacles that you cannot circumvent and doors that will not open without help.” Kinvara placed a hand on his knee while she emphasized her point.

Jon narrowed his eyes and said, “Earlier you were warning that I should be wary of who I trust, even my family. If I cannot trust my brothers and sisters, my grandmother and uncle, even my own mother and father then tell me why I should trust you?”

“I warned against sharing your power and to be wary of the gifts that you offer. I only ask for the gift of the chance to earn your trust and I only wish to increase your power. That is the difference between others and I.” Kinvara stated. Her hand moved up from his knee to trace his thigh, even through the scale protecting his leg, Jon could feel the heat of her touch. _Like a dragon._

He resisted the urge to brush her hand away. The last thing he needed to do was to show his discomfort. “You do know I don’t believe in your god. Why spend this effort when I think most of what you preach is nonsense?”

Kinvara grinned. “R’hllor hasn’t meant for you to be his prophet. Our Lord has his Priest and Priestesses to guide the masses to the light. You are his warrior and will fight to forge the path. Your belief now is unnecessary, eventually the truth will be so clear that even a skeptic like yourself will have an eventual change of heart.”

Jon scoffed. “Don’t hold your breath.”

The carriage jerked underneath their feet. Jon peeked through the curtains. They had reach the main road now and the traffic parted in way of their escort. He felt rather than saw Syraxes. His dragon was flying low enough that her form was unmistakable. Wide eyed travelers on the road shouted in excitement.

Kinvara took the opportunity to take the seat beside him. She was so close that their thighs were touching. The action drew Jon’s attention back into the cabin, centered squarely on the Priestess. “What are you doing?” He asked.

“Inspecting you.” The Priestess added simply. Jon grasped her wrist when she tried reaching for his face.

“For?” He asked in a firm tone. _Does she not understand the concept of personal space or does she merely not care?_

“What lies beneath this armor that you shell yourself in. There is more to you than what meets the eye. A warrior, a dragon rider and a boy who became a man far too early.” Kinvara whispered. This close and Jon could see the slight gloss on her full lips.

He pushed her away. “I don’t know what games you’re playing Priestess, but you can keep your hands to yourself.”

Kinvara looked undeterred though she didn’t reach out to him. “You’ve known great pain, haven’t you? I can see the scars now, they are just under the surface, but they run deep.”

Jon scowled at her. “You don’t know of what you speak.”

“You blame yourself for this loss. Is that why you are so adamantly loyal to your family? You have known the pain of losing someone dear and do not wish to experience it again? I am sorry Your Highness, but that viewpoint will blind you. “

Jon didn’t answer but Kinvara continued. “Who was she? Is that why you must go behind the Black Walls, to pay your respects?”

“Quiet.” Jon snapped. His glare was enough to pause the Priestess inquiry. “My past belongs to me. Stop inferring as it does not concern you.”

“But it does concern me. As I have said before, the journey that you are on cannot be done alone. I am but a humble servant to our Lord and as you are his champion, my servitude extends to you as well. Trust me, use me, ease the pain and suffering that limit you with both my council and my body.” Her red eyed stare grew intense and Jon’s world narrowed as if the light at the edges of his vision disappeared from existence.

He hesitated. Her meaning and what she was offering was understood. It would be a lie if he didn’t admit her offer didn’t tempt him. _She’s beautiful... but I can’t._ Another time, Jon may have been ready to fall to the temptation, but duty steeled his resolve. “Let me learn to trust you by showing me that you can be silent when I ask for it.”

Most of the rest of their ride passed in merciful silence. The Red Priestess clearly wanted to speak more but Jon took the time to glance out of the carriage. As they drew closer to the city, the crowds grew steadily larger and louder. Syraxes circled only a hundred or so feet above them and Jon could feel her curiosity. She had never been so close to so many people.

The proximity made Jon nervous. Despite their connection, Syraxes could be unpredictable at times. For a dragon, unpredictably could mean the deaths of many people. “The Old blood should know now that I am here. Where will they meet us?” Jon asked.

He could see the city guard among the crowd. They looked nervous but not hostile. _Maybe that’s a good sign. Still Kinvara’s escort is small. Where are the others?_

“The Triarchs are undoubtedly preparing a plan of action as we speak. They will only meet with you from a position of strength, directly in front of their high walls. This gives us a chance to let the people see you. Ride your dragon through the streets and win their hearts.”

Jon breathed deeply. “I take it you wish to be seen with me on Syraxes.”

Kinvara nodded. “Yes, it would be best if I sat on the back of your dragon with you. Tens of thousands in this city come to my sermons every day. You and I together will send a powerful message.”

Jon stifled the instant urge to deny her. No one besides himself had ever ridden Syraxes. Elaerys had died before Syraxes was old enough to be ridden. Jon wanted to preserve the privilege for his grandmother. If there was anyone worthy of experiencing the exhilaration of flying then it was her. “Is that necessary?” He asked.

“It depends on the strength that you wish to project. A firm ally of our faith sends an incredibly powerful message.” She answered.

_And you seated on a back of a dragon does as well. I wonder what that will do for your image?_ The cynic in Jon couldn’t help but consider that the Priestess had her own motives. He had seen how the faith operated in Westeros, any success made by his father and they were quick to attach themselves to the positive public relations. This Red Priestess was likely no different. “Very well, will more of your escort be joining us when we reach the city?”

“This is our escort, Your Highness, along with the masses that will join us. They will be more than enough.”

Jon glanced out the carriage window. They were just coming to the edge of the city and yet the crowd gathering was already in the thousands. He had seen similar numbers whenever he rode with his family through the streets of King’s Landing but they always had the Kingsguard, Red Guard and several Gold Cloaks as an escort. He wasn’t worried for his safety, Syraxes practically guaranteed it but the safety of others was his main concern. If any fool threw something or approached in a manner that Syraxes deemed a threat, then their march could turn into a bad situation fast.

“The rest of your Fiery Hand or more Tiger Cloaks at least?” He remembered Elaerys’s words. _A thousand warriors guard the Red Temple, not a number more and never a number less. A treaty that the Old Blood made with the faith hundreds of years ago._ Elaerys’s knowledge of Volantene history had even impressed Tyrion. If she had ever met his sister, Jon imagined the two would have never left the library. He shoved away the rush of feelings that came with those thoughts and focused on the matter at hand. “There are a thousand warriors who are guarding the Red Temple, I count ten who guard us. Where are the rest?”

Kinvara’s face remained composed. “They aren’t needed, the masses are enough-“

Her words died in her throat when Jon’s hand shot out to wrap around it. He was as quick as a wolf and the Priestess had no time to react. Her impacted against the wall with a dull thud. _She’s hiding something, find it._ The voice in his head demanded. Jon flexed his sword hand around her throat, something inside of him delighted at Kinvara’s wince of pain. “Lie to me again and I’ll crush your throat. What are you hiding? Where are the rest of your warriors?” He relaxed his grip so the Priestess could speak.

“My Prince, I’m not lying to you, the masses-“ Jon tightened his grip once again, cutting off her airway.

“I’ll warn you just this once, omitting details is just a lie of omission. Do you think I won’t do it? I could snap your pretty throat like a twig. My dragon would kill your warriors before they knew something was amiss. Do not test me Priestess and answer my question with honesty.”

When he relaxed his grip, Kinvara gasped. She sucked in air greedily. Jon raised a brow, waiting for her to gain composure.

“Benerro controls most of the Fiery Hand and many of those who I have swayed won’t risk coming.” Kinvara whispered. She dropped her gaze.

_Benerro? The High Priest?_ Jon gripped her chin with his left hand, forcibly turning her head so she was forced to meet his hard stare. “Why? Are you not the High Priestess, surely he could spare a few spears?”

She didn’t respond to his inquiry, so Jon gave her a shake of encouragement. “I… Benerro’s sight has been corrupted. He is at odds with my visions.”

“Your visions about me.” Jon finished for her. The Priestess nodded, as much as possible. With his hand still around her throat. Jon leaned in closer. “Why?” he breathed. “Am I not your Lord’s champion? Benerro should be here as well.”

“Benerro believes the opposite. He’s misinterpreted his visions and operates in opposition of our Lord’s will.” Kinvara stated firmly. Her hands were to her side, non-threatening even as Jon pressed her against the wall.

_The opposite?_ Jon wondered what that meant. “What did he see?” He demanded.

She flinched. “He didn’t tell me! My sermons were restricted when I foretold of your arrival. Benerro is the only one with that kind of authority.”

“And so you thought to drag me into the middle of your power play?” Jon said through clenched teeth.

“It is not a power play. I told you the truth, you are our Lord’s champion! Benerro is mistaken or his vanity prevents him from seeing the truth.” Kinvara pleaded.

“And what will happen when Benerro finds out that I’m here. Will he try anything.?” Inwardly Jon cursed the last thing he needed was to be caught in the middle of a religious war. _I hate this city._

“So as long as I am with you then no.” Kinvara answered.

Jon’s jaw clenched hard. “What makes you so important? As far as I see Benerro has the army and the temple. You are seeming more and more useless as time goes on.”

“And I have the people and my Priestesses. Benerro knows that any attempt against my life risks him losing control of our flock. Half a million souls in this city alone. He is not so foolish to risk the consequences.”

Jon stared at the Priestess for several moments. To her credit, she didn’t flinch or break his gaze. Finally, he released her and slumped in his seat. She rubbed at her neck but the elaborate choker she wore would hide any bruises. With his adrenaline decreasing, Jon felt a twinge of guilt at his outburst. He doubted the Priestess would have told him truth without a threat but still. _My outbursts are getting worse now. How long till I’m Aerys II? What will they call me? Jaehaerys the Mad Dragon?_ His family needed dragons if that ever came to pass.

Their carriage drew to a stop a few moments later. Jon pulled Kinvara to him before she could exit. “If this goes south, Priestess…” He trailed off in warning.

“You’ll kill me?” She finished. Despite what just happened, Kinvara didn’t look too alarmed.

“No, I will make you wish I did.” Jon answered. Judgement pulsed in his hand with agreement.

She nodded. “Eventually, you’ll learn to trust me. I know it.” She stepped out of the carriage not waiting for his reply. “Shall we begin?”

Jon stepped into the bright outdoors and commanded Syraxes to land. “Let’s begin.” He answered.

 

 

 

Eastern Volantis was a labyrinth of twisting streets, alleyways, boardwalks, plazas, and market squares. The streets went from dirt to cobblestone, wide to narrow, serpentine to straight as the path of an arrow. The heat was pervasive, and the air was heavy with moisture from the Rhoyne as well as the sweat of thousands of onlookers who had come to see the dragon. A rank smell hung in the air. _Tyrion said the city smelled like an old whore._ Jon had no idea what an old whore or even a whore smelled like but thought the description was fitting.

Elephant dung littered the streets and added to the smell, made worse by the waves of heat that wafted from the ground. Jon’s armor only made the heat worse and his tunic clung uncomfortably to his skin. However, the heat had done nothing to dissuade the citizens from adding to the crowd. Thousands packed either side of the street, pressing against each other as those further craned their necks to look. He could see rich merchants in ivory and silk, their palanquins and hathays abandoned as they gaped alongside the slaves who drove them.

Even elephants were present in the crowd, though thankfully they were further to the back. Some were sequestered in alleyways, while others shuffled nervously at the sight of Syraxes. His dragon appraised the beasts, with both curiosity and hunger. The biggest bull elephants were nearly twice her size in both height and weight but Syraxes was already developing a plan of attack. How much speed would she need to topple them? Were their tusks any threat? Could she eat them? Could- “Syraxes, no.” Jon commanded. His dragon was stalking toward a young dwarf elephant who was driven into a panic at her approach. He grit his teeth as the elephant’s handlers beat the beast with braided whips.

If controlling Syraxes wasn’t a challenge in itself, then Jon would have warged the beast. He had done it before. Despite their intelligence, elephants were surprisingly easy to warg once you had established trust. Seeing such a majestic animal being mistreated only fueled his ire. Kinvara’s hand on his thigh distracted his train of thought and reminded Jon that this was not the time to intervene.

The Red Priestess rode with him. Even after patting her down for weapons, Jon hadn’t trusted her to sit behind him. Kinvara wasn’t shy about leaning against him while she waved and preached to the crowd. Her hair was laid over one shoulder and sweat made her robes cling to her curves. Jon was taller than her and with her so close, every time he bent his head he inhaled a whiff of her scent. She smelled a mix of smoke and mint. A reprieve from the stench of the streets.

“Be hold our Lord’s champion!” Kinvara shouted. There was a wide smile on her face that didn’t look the least bit forced. Jon didn’t share her enthusiasm, nor did he bother waving to the crowd. Instead, he was too busy scanning for threats.  He was too occupied with scanning the crowd and windows of the surrounding buildings for possible threats. The Tiger Cloaks were present and in force. Some assisted their escort in keeping the crowd from spilling into the streets while others did nothing else but stare. True to Kinvara’s word, thousands followed behind them.

“Do you see now? I was telling the truth. Look at these souls, men, women and children. You will save them all.” Her voice was smug.

“We will see.” Jon muttered. The heat sapped him of the will to argue.

They passed through courtyards and pavilions, under bridges and elevated walkways. Everywhere he looked there were throngs of people. Children rested on their parent’s shoulders or climbed onto the hundreds of often headless statues dispersed throughout the city. Slaves, freedman and merchant lords stood side by side, perhaps for the first time in their lives.

Being at the center of attention was unnerving. He had participated in parades before but Daenerys and Visenya were always at his side and his father was always the focal point, not him. Jon didn’t know what would be better, to wave or sit still. He chose the latter, if only to maintain his grip on Syraxes’s reins. Their position made his hands rest on Kinvara’s thighs. As intimate as a lover.

“How much longer till we reach the Long Bridge?” Jon asked. His armor and clothing clung to him like a second skin. Already the effort of keeping Syraxes in line along with his fitful sleep and the heat was taking its toll. He longed to be in the air again and flying west. _To home. To family._

By now his sense of direction had already been lost. High buildings on either side restricted his view to the street ahead of him. Even through the gaps in the buildings, the Rhoyne was not yet visible. He hoped getting closer to the river would drive away the stench.

“We will make our way through the market district and that will give way to the checkpoint before the Long Bridge. From there, that is where the great game begins.” Kinvara answered. Despite the heat, the priestess didn’t look the least bit perturbed. He watched a bead of sweat travel down the long column of her neck and couldn’t help but notice how soft her thighs were beneath his hands.

_I don’t want any part in your great game. The sooner I deliver Elaerys’s ashes to her family, the sooner I can leave to my own._  Jon thought sourly. He knew that he was on a time crunch as well. Daenerys’s marriage was only a few months away and he had no intention of letting that happen.

_Even if she hates me for leaving, I won’t abandon her to Dorne._ Even with Syraxes, Jon knew it would take some convincing for his father to halt the marriage. He had been out of the loop of Westerosi politics for so long that he had no idea if Aegon had married Margaery or if his father had any success in marrying off Rhaenys. His elder sister was nearly as stubborn as his uncle. _There will be hell to pay if Visenya has been betrothed._ His little sister was too pure to be the property of some Lord Paramount or his help whelp. Jon wouldn’t allow it.

“Thoughts of your family again?” Kinvara asked. She twisted her torso to meet his stare. “Whenever you grow silent for too long it is either due to you scanning for threats or I suspect thoughts of home. You miss them, don’t you?”

Jon answered honestly. “I do.” 

“Be careful to not let nostalgia blind you. How long have you been gone?” Kinvara asked.

“Nearly four years.” Jon answered. _It is nearly Visenya’s name day._ His sister would be four and ten, old enough to be wed.

“Four years is quite a long absence. Much can change, including the people we once held dearest to our hearts.” Kinvara said sagely.

“And somethings, like blood are timeless.” He intoned.

“You are not ignorant of your family’s history. They have gone to war with each other before, many times in fact if you include those exiled.” The challenge was evident in her voice.

“I am aware of my family’s history, as is my family. We have no desire for history to repeat itself.” His irritation with her continued pursuit of the topic was clear.

“When we go behind the black walls-“  Kinvara started.

Jon interrupted. “We?” he asked. _You assume too much._

“You will need my guidance when dealing with the Old Blood. My ability to see through their deception will be to your advantage.” Kinvara muttered as if her answer was obvious.

“That will be of no need. I do not plan on being here for long.” What he left out was that he would have no use for her once he met the Honorros.

Kinvara smiled again, as if she was aware of something that he was not. “The Old Blood are an ambitious sort. Each grasps desperately for power and you are presenting yourself as a ladder to the top. Undoubtedly, they will try to tie themselves and their families to you. Not to mention the Tiger party with their recently found majority will envy your dragon’s martial prowess and will want to add it to their growing forces.”

_The tigers are building an army?_ Jon wondered. Elaerys’s father was an old tiger who spent years in the senate and a fortune on influencing the political sphere. _What will the Old Tiger say when he sees us?_ “Who do they plan to war with?” He asked.

“Knowing the history of the Tiger Party, perhaps everyone. This new Triarch is quite ambitious and innovative. The lone elephant on the triarchy has attempted to use the merchant lords to negate the Tiger’s influence but Daelyx Honorro has met with Benerro multiple times before and after his election. Some would argue Benerro’s endorsement secured his victory.”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat and then his mind raced. “The Old Tiger is part of the Triarchy?”

Kinvara turned to regard him with a furrowed brow. “Malaquo Maegyr has been re-elected yes, but Daelyx Honorro is the youngest ever to ascend to the position. He is just shy of thirty years.”

_Elaerys’s older brother then._ Jon had never met Daelyx but the way Elaerys had talked about him, it would be believed that Daelyx was in the same vein as the Conqueror himself. Apparently, Daelyx and their father had always had friction between them. Which had prompted Daelyx to leave Volantis when Elaerys was a little girl. Her older brother returned occasionally to wow their family with tales of his exploits.

“You’ve grown quiet. Does the news trouble you? Benerro sacrifices the sanctity of the faith to gain political power. The deception that he still operates under our Lord’s will and not his own is what must be slain.” She said.

“I don’t plan on killing anyone today or interfering with your politics. My interests lie half a world away.” Jon grumbled.

“Half a world seems much closer on dragon’s back, does it not?” Kinvara asked, almost playfully.

They passed through the market district and the humidity grew nearly unbearable. To the west, in between the market stalls, Jon could see the turquoise waters of the Rhoyne. The stalls were draped in banners of a hundred different colors marked by the category of wares that they sold. Fisher stalls depicted various aquatic wildlife on banners of green to blue, red banners were decorated with swords and spears, yellow to orange with livestock and the livery continued adding to an incredible spectrum. Vendors stopped peddling their wares to stare at the procession. Jon wondered if thieves were taking advantage in the lapse of attention. 

Eventually, they reached the end of the district and as they rounded a corner the Long Bridge came into view. Halting access to the Long Bridge were two hundred warriors of the Fiery Hand. Their orange armor blazed in the sunlight, the combined glow was bright enough to hurt Jon’s eyes. Their spears were held at ready and at the sight of Syraxes, as one their spear tips ignited.

Syraxes snarled at the sight and her spines raised in agitation. Jon could feel the thrill of an impending battle running through their bond and he readied to throw Kinvara from the saddle. Her weight would only hinder Syraxes’s ability to take to the skies. A rush of magical energy flowed from the warriors. Jon grit his teeth. The feeling was similar to the battle-magic that the Valyrian Spellswords once wielded. _Thoros of Myr ignites his blades with wildfire but this is no cheap trick._ Judgement pulsed in its scabbard across his back.

Kinvara spoke before Jon was tempted to give into the bloodlust. “Wait!” She exclaimed. “Please let me talk to them before you act.”

She was already sliding off the saddle before Jon could answer. A murmur went through the crowd at the sight. “Please follow me. Let them see our numbers.”

Jon chanced a look behind him. Their train had swelled so much that the throng of people disappeared behind the corner. _They must be ten thousand or more._ The Priestess was confident that the numbers would be enough to dissuade an attack but a rabble of citizens was little match for trained warriors in formation.

His face twisted with displeasure. “What have you dragged us into Kinvara? I won’t risk Syraxes for whatever game you are playing.” Jon hissed.

“I play no games, Your Highness. This is Benerro’s power play. He wouldn’t risk so many warriors. It is a show of strength to convince you to flee. Stand strong here and he will have no choice but to let you pass.” The High Priestess pleaded. Her distress was plain.

Briefly, Jon wondered what she would do if he abandoned her. A woman in need tugged on his heart strings and he abandoned the train of thought nearly as soon as it came to mind. _We are close enough already, may as well see this through._

They closed the distance between them and the warriors until a gap of about a hundred yards remained between their groups. Then Jon halted. Syraxes’s first response to any conflict was to meet it with overwhelming force. It took all his power to restrain her.

A tall, thin man emerged from the warriors. Two guards escorted him across the cobblestone street. As the Priest drew closer, Jon could see the flame tattoos that covered the man’s cheeks, chin and his shaven head. The tattoos formed a bright red mask that crackled about his eyes and coiled down and around his lipless mouth.

The priest and his two guards stopped thirty yards away. Kinvara held a hand up that bid Jon to wait and then she walked over to the trio.

Jon closed his eyes and reached out across their bond to connect with Syraxes. The feedback from her sharper senses was briefly overwhelming. He tuned out the swell of background noise and focused on the conversation unfolding in front of them.

“Priestess Kinvara, you have over stepped your bounds inviting that creature here.” The Priest fixed a withering stare on Kinvara, the tattoos further twisted his face making his scowl monstrous.

Kinvara’s spine was straight and her head held high. “I operate under the guidance of our Lord. What guides you, your own ambition or greed?” Her voice was a sharp as the crack of a whip.

Benerro’s eyes narrowed. “You are a fool, and what is worse than a fool is a fool who doesn’t know that they are. Bringing him here invites disaster to thousands!”

And then Kinvara laughed. A sudden gust, both musical and full of scorn. “You, more than any are aware that the greatest of gifts our Lord grants us require sacrifice. What is the difference here?”

“The difference is that he is not our Lord’s champion! Death clings to him like a shroud, infecting everything and everyone that he comes into contact with. Your blindness has caused you to bind yourself to the champion of our greatest enemy.” His voice carried across the courtyard, reaching those closes in the crowd who then passed the information in an excited murmur.

Frustrated, Jon broke his connection with Syraxes and vaulted from her saddle. Benerro’s guards bristled at his fast approach but a hand from their High Priest stilled their flaming spears.

“Kinvara insists that I will build an empire, that I am your Lord’s champion. Every word out of her mouth has been some vague warning of events yet to come of things that I have no desire of doing. Yet you suggest the opposite, tell me what you have seen? “Jon eyes were hard and the High Valyrian sharpened his tone.

Benerro didn’t flinch from the gaze. He was several inches taller than Jon. His spine steeled as he spoke. “Kinvara does not lie. You will build an empire but the bricks of it are held together by blood. Where she is mistaken is the belief that you are our Lord’s promised champion. The only promise you bring is death, first by fire and then a deep freeze.”

Jon’s jaw clenched, and he took a deep breath to center himself. Benerro’s words touched on an underlying fear of his. He looked to Kinvara to hear her retort.

She met his eyes. “The foundation of an empire must be built on something.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Debated about posting this chapter as there is still much to tell but I decided that this was a good stopping point. 
> 
> Additionally I wanted to address the controversy surrounding the pairing change. Some are assuming that I merely changing the pairing because of a few troll commentators, namely flayjunior and his thousand aliases. Others have accused me of somehow using the Jon/Dany tag to generate readers and have cited that I haven't moderated comments as evidence of this deception. 
> 
> First flayjunior and other anon trolls aren't the only reason why I decided to change the pairings for this fic. As other commentators have pointed out, there are a subsection of Jonerys fans that can be particularly hostile when a fic that has the pairing tag isn't up to their expectations (meaning Jon/Dany are completely without drama), take the vitriol in this comment section as evidence. I believed that was the shared opinion of a large subsection of the readership due to the passionate and often hostile responses when obstacles to Jon & Dany's eventual reconciliation in their relationship were presented. Clearly there are a large amount of readers reading this who were perfectly content to read a contested love story featuring these two. 
> 
> Second I have no need to use underhanded tactics to generate readers. This conspiracy theory lacks all logic. I have a story featuring Jon/Lyanna as the main pair (just 2 fics on the site) and that is gathering hits faster than any of the Jon/Dany main pair stories that I have written and other Jon/Dany fics. Additionally I receive a large volume of comments every chapter that I do my best to respond to most. I don't want to stifle that discussion because it makes writing this fic that much more enjoyable and I would still have to read the troll comments anyway. 
> 
> Third I'll likely rearrange the tags. Jon & Dany if they do get together in the end will do so much later in the story. This was always my original plan anyway and since they aren't the biggest focus they will be listed later in the pairings. This story will likely end in an ot3. The current tags are appropriate because well, the Targaryens are pretty damn eccentric. If you want cut & dry romance, completely monogamous pairings and a fairy tale ending then this probably isn't the story for you. 
> 
> Thanks to the people who politely called me out for bending to the will of the haters. I realize no matter which story I write, there will always be detractors. 
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter will come a bit sooner. We are almost to the end of Act 1.


	11. Scions of Old Valyria part 3

Jon

 

The blast of a horn interrupted their standoff. Jon watched as the column of warriors parted once again and a lone rider emerged. The man was clad in dark grey plate mail and astride a brown destrier. He held a white banner with streaks of red. His mount balked at the sight of Syraxes, nearly forcing its rider to the ground.

The rider gripped his reins tightly and forced his horse to calm before he dismounted. Once its rider was off its back, the horse bolted, prompting its rider to curse violently.

He was a large man, black bearded and balding. On his armor was a dark green tunic with a standing black bear. ' _House Mormont_ _' , Jon_ realized.

The rider took to his knee before Jon, Kinvara and Benerro. “Your grace, by order of the Triarchy, you are hereby invited behind the Black Walls as an honored guest of the Nobility of the Old Blood.” His high Valyrian was rough and his accent undeniably Westerosi.

“By whose order?” Benerro snapped. His gaze was full of distrust and it didn’t leave Jon. As if the Priest believed that Jon had somehow manipulated the events into action.

“On the order of Triarch Daelyx Honorro, Priest.” The rider’s voice was sharp, and Jon didn’t miss the underlying disrespect. _Not a believer I see._

Benerro grinded his teeth but his protest was silenced. The rider turned to address Jon again. “Triarch Daelyx and his colleagues bid you welcome behind the Black Walls as an honored guest and ask that you accept myself as an escort.” The more the rider spoke, the clearer his northern accent became.

“It seems you have lost your horse.” Jon stated with a smile. The Northman didn’t share in his humor. “I will fly behind the walls; my dragon grows restless and I would not have Benerro move his warriors.” He shot a glare at Benerro to emphasize the threat.

The rider seemed to finally take in the sight of Syraxes and her wings. He cleared his throat nervously. “Triarch Honorro believed that to be a possibility as well. No alarm will be raised.”

Jon nodded and turned to mount Syraxes. A hand around his wrist stopped him before he could reach his dragon. “You must take me with you, Your Highness. They will try to manipulate you and use your power to their advantage. I am the only one who can see through their deception.” Kinvara pleaded.

He wrenched his hand away from the Priestess’s grip. “Look at what you have done here. Everything you’ve whispered has been a half truth or a blatant lie, despite how I warned you.” He leaned closer to her ear and whispered. “Count yourself fortunate that I don’t kill you for this power play that you have dragged us into.”

With a final, dismissive glance Jon mounted Syraxes. “"Sōves” He commanded.

At once, Syraxes unfurled her wings and with a single, powerful flap they were airborne. She roared a challenge which shook both the crowd and the Fiery Hand. They circled once, and Jon could see the forlorn expression on Kinvara’s face. With another snap of Syraxes’s wings they were flying over the Long Bridge.

The roofs of the many shops along the bridge were filled with onlookers who craned their necks and pointed excitedly at Syraxes. Jon paid them little mind. Instead, he looked ahead to the rapidly approaching Black Wall. Along the battlements he could see dozens of Tiger Cloaks, with their silver mail shirts and polished tiger helms, standing at ready.

Blessedly, the giant ballistae positioned on the wall were unmanned and unarmed. The slave soldiers waved as Syraxes passed over them. Below the crest of the high walls, near the massive main gate, was a gathering of hundreds of the Old Blood.

The sky was cloudless, and the black walls seemed to drink in the sunlight rather than reflect it. Already Jon could taste the difference in air quality. It was nearly as fresh as the cool air of Winterfell.

With a deep breath, full of trepidation, Jon bid Syraxes to land. His dragon descended gracefully, and her long claws touched down on the grey brick with nary a sound. They landed several yards away from the growing crowd. He slid from Syraxes’s saddle a moment later. Tiger cloaks were amongst the crowd but there didn’t seem to be any signs of growing hostility.

“It has been centuries since our city was graced by the sight of a Dragonlord. Truly remarkable, I can imagine no greater gift than the gift of flight.” A tall man said. He stepped from the front of the crowd. Broad shouldered, a close-cropped beard with long golden hair done in a braid that tumbled down his back, the resemblance was unmistakable.

“Daelyx Honorro.” Jon stated. The man nodded, a smile on his face. He wore a crimson toga trimmed with gold and a sleeveless dark grey tunic. Pinned on his chest was a brooch of three laughing heads wrought in iron. A circlet of a dozen dragons interlocked from head to tail sat on his head, the grey ripples indicated it was made of Valyrian steel. Each dragon had a gemstone eye of a different color.

Daelyx held out a hand and Jon clasped his arm in his.  “Prince Jaehaerys of the Seven Kingdoms, welcome to Old Volantis.” After they shook, two other men stepped forth from the crowd. _The other Triarchs,_ Jon realized. They were both older than Daelyx, wizened men. One was dress in the same colors as Daelyx, though he was nearly bald with sunspots on his head. The other was the lone elephant, dressed in pale green, _Celadon_ Elaerys had once told him, instead of crimson.

Daelyx motioned and a young girl rushed over. In her hands was a tray holding a goblet of wine, a small knife, strips of white cloth and four glasses. She passed the glasses to the Triarchs, carefully poured wine into their cups before doing the same for Jon. Her hands trembled, nearly spilling the wine on his boots. Jon smiled to reassure her, and a fierce blush grew on her cheeks.

With his glass in hand, Jon looked to the Triarchs. The crimson draped codger stared back with suspicion clearly evident in his eyes, the lone elephant flashed a gold toothed grin.

Daelyx led the ceremony, first he took the ornate knife and made a small incision in the center of his right palm before grasping the drink in his bleeding hand. The knife was passed between the Triarchs who repeated Daelyx’s actions. Finally, the knife passed to Jon who cut his palm without hesitation. “By the blood of Old Valyria, in the judgement of Balerion, I Daelyx swear this oath that no harm shall befall Prince Jaehaerys of the Seven Kingdoms. He is a guest of the Triarchy and by our will, to suffer our fury, all will extend their hospitality.”

The other Triarchs voiced their agreement and an echo traveled throughout the onlooking crowd. Daelyx met Jon’s eyes, lifted the glass to his lips and drained its contents.

Jon waited until the other Triarchs followed. The old tiger sputtered, spilling drops of wine in his white beard. Jon drained his glass a moment later. The wine was rich and sweet.

“Far you have traveled? For months we have heard rumors, which at the time were thought to be ridiculous. How wrong we were.” The lone elephant said and then he looked to Syraxes. She stared back with intense amber eyes that forced the man to drop his gaze. His action was met by a draconic snort of derision. “I am Nyesso Vhassar and I am proud to welcome you… both of you to our city.”

“In the days long since past it was said that the Sorcerer Princes and Dragonlords would spill far more blood for their oaths. They could heal a cut with nary but a look.  It would be something if we could still weave those spells, unfortunately bandages are all that we have.” Daelyx said as he wrapped his hand.

Jon took the offered bandage from the serving girl. “Thank you.” He said softly. The young girl blushed brightly and scurried once she was bid to leave.

“Tell me, where is my wild sister? Is Elaerys afraid that we will forbid her from leaving again? Her mother will certainly try but I think your dragon will convince her otherwise.” Daelyx tone was good natured, joking even.

Jon’s face fell. “Elaerys is dead. She… I have come to return her ashes and pay my respects to your family.”

Daelyx’s shoulders slumped. Malaquo Maegyr laid a gnarled hand on the triarch in comfort. “How did she die?” Daelyx asked.

Bile rose in Jon’s throat as the memories came to forefront. He nearly choked. “I lost her in the Dothraki sea. Her attackers they… they died screaming.”

“Your dragon?” Malaquo Maegyr questioned. There was a strange gleam in his eyes.

Jon’s voice was fierce. “As well as by my sword and my direwolf. All involved in her death now lie in the ground.”

A grim smile then appeared on Daelyx’s face. “Then justice has been served.” He took a moment to compose himself and then said, “This does change things. Elaerys’s mother… our family were hoping for a family reunion. Now, it seems we must prepare a funeral.”

“I am sorry. I… we-“ The words were caught in his throat. His failure to protect Elaerys, something he had sworn to do, drove him to silence.

“I am not my father, Prince Jaehaerys. Despite our difference in age, Elaerys and I were cut from the same cloth. Both of us were too willful to play in tune with my father’s machinations.” Daelyx shook his head softly. “Never could the man understand that his children weren’t content to be pawns in his games.”

Jon caught the past tense reference. “Your father, has he passed?”

Daelyx nodded. “He died a year ago in his bed. Close to the end he asked for Elaerys; sometimes he confused my sisters for her. At the very least, now our family knows her fate.”

Jon grimaced. When Elaerys had left Volantis she had been angry with her father and her family but the years away had cooled her anger and made her homesick. They had argued about when to return to Volantis and about Jon’s obligations to his own family. Most of all, they argued about Daenerys. He flexed his sword hand. “I have her ashes as well. It is no replacement for her but I know she would want to be with her family in the end.”

Jon made to grab the urn from Syraxes’s saddle but a raised hand from Daelyx stopped him. “In truth, Elaerys and I were never so close. I’ve spent so many years away from this city, chasing my own dreams. In accordance with our customs, the last to be with the deceased or the one who knew her best is expected to present her remains to her family and participate in the funeral rights. That is you in both cases, I suppose.”

“Triarch Daelyx’s sister is warranted a full ceremony. One that the entirety of the Old Blood will participate in.” Added Malaquo Maegyr. He raised a challenging brow to see if Jon would reject his proposal.

“Triarch Maegyr is correct. The Old blood and its most prominent families keep close ties. The passing of one of our daughters is no small matter, mind you. This would also allow the people to meet the world’s only dragonlord. A sight this city hasn’t seen since Aurion came begging to our walls.” Nyesso Vhassar said. His gold tooth gleamed in the sunlight.

“If you would excuse my colleagues, Prince Jaehaerys. For some it is hard to separate politics from everyday life. The words they speak are the truth though. Rumors surround you like wind and we have heard some outlandish ones. A voyage into Valyria?” Daelyx questioned.

“Some rumors are just that, rumors. Others have likely been embellished until they are the stuff of legend and the tales of the age of heroes are more believable.” Jon said. He had no desire to share his secrets with these men.

“A half answer, splendid. I suspect there is a politician somewhere under that armor and muscle.” Nyesso Vhasar joked. His smile crinkled the skin around his eyes and made the moles across his cheeks all the more apparent. “Perhaps, the Prince would be more inclined to share when we are out of this heat.”

“The first order of business, and I think the Prince would agree is to inform my family of the tragic news.” Daelyx spoke. His voice though not raised, held authority as Nyesso Vhasar agreed immediately. Malaquo Maegyr didn’t say a word, instead he split his focus between Syraxes and Jon.

“Thank you. Syraxes will want to stay close, at least until she is comfortable. She is quite protective and does tend to get nervous if I am not in her line of sight.” Jon answered. What he didn’t say was that Syraxes was also a deterrent to any threats as well. While the Old Blood took Guest Rights as seriously as Northerners, Jon was not so dense to not consider the possibility that they might violate them.

“A protective silver shadow, well let us hope we can gain Syraxes’s trust. Many of the oldest palaces were built to house visiting Dragonlords. Your dragon will have an ample choice of dwellings during the course of your stay here.” Nyesso Vhassar said.

_How long do they expect_ _me to stay_ _here?_ While the welcoming nature of Daelyx and Nyesso assuaged some of Jon’s concerns, he had every intention of finding a place to rest outside of the city. By their tone however, it seemed that the Triarchs were not only offering housing in the city but also expecting his stay to be for an extended period rather than a single night. “I appreciate the sentiment but Syraxes and I would likely be better suited to find accommodations outside of the city.” Jon said diplomatically.

“A cave? Nonsense.” Malaquo Maegyr said dismissively. His face further wrinkled, full of scorn.

Nyesso looked apologetic. “Forgive my colleague, he is abrasive to just about everyone. Though you would think he would make some exception to a man with a living, fire breathing dragon right behind him. Triarch Maegyr does raise a point however, our dearly departed Elaerys does deserve a full ceremony. An offering must be made to each of the fourteen great ones. Each day is a celebration to commemorate her life and each night we gather to celebrate our days to come. I highly doubt there is anywhere outside of these walls that can match the comfort afforded here. Two weeks is a long while to spend in a lowly tavern or Syrax forbid, a cave.”

_Fourteen days?_ Jon’s mind spun. Elaerys had never been particularly religious and the intricacies of the Valyrian religion had never been his chief concern. He had at most expected to spend three days in Volantis before he and Syraxes flew further east to Elyria.

Daelyx must have read the confusion on his face. “Few outside of these walls are familiar with the customs of the First Daughter. We trace our history back to the Freehold more than any other, and Elaerys’s mother is one who keeps to our gods. She would greatly appreciate if you stayed and helped lay her daughter’s soul to rest.”

Feeling as if there was no other alternative Jon agreed. “I owe your family that at the very least.”

*

Their open-air carriage glided smoothly over the stone road. Above Syraxes flew just over the roofs of the palaces and towers. Old Volantis was in sharp contrast to the city outside of the high walls. The roads were wide, paved and immaculately clean. Every detail of the city seemed planned, down to the laying of individual bricks. There were no shambling structures of wood, none of the buildings leaned on each other haphazardly and bridges & catwalks flowed over the roads elegantly. The air was made fresh by the abundance of green bushes, trees and gardens. Canals of clear water ran through the city like veins. Some of the structures, the older palaces and manses, were sung out of black Dragonstone. Their walls were twisted into the shapes of sphinxes, serpents, gargoyles and manticores. Though most of the structures in the city were made of brick, stone and wood.

Most shocking however were the city’s people. Jon’s time away from the city had caused him to forget just how different the Old Blood were from other men. Every single person in the city was dressed in silks befitting the richest of Westerosi nobility. Even the slaves, made recognizable by their darker skin and tattoos, were well dressed and groomed.

Silver-blonde, white, blonde and hair the color of moonlight abounded. They stared from the walkways, over-hanging bridges, sides of the road and he caught the glances of individuals in the many windows. The Old Blood were far subtler than the masses outside of their walled city. Many craned their necks to catch sight of Syraxes though there were few shouts or visible exclamations. A sizeable number in the crowd merely stared silently with expressions that Jon struggled to decipher. _Are they afraid? Shocked? Awed? Or are they suspicious?_

Daelyx’s voice interrupted his musings. “Strange happenings outside of the walls. I have never seen such a reaction from Benerro.”

Jon remembered Kinvara’s statements about Daelyx winning Benerro’s endorsement in the election. “Unfortunately, I was dragged into a power struggle between the High Priest and Priestess. Their opinions differed.”  He offered.

Daelyx cocked an eyebrow. “Their differences must have been vast. It has been centuries since the Fiery Hand has been mobilized and Benerro isn’t one to perform such a drastic action frivolously. “

Jon shrugged noncommittally. “I made the mistake of associating myself with religious fanatics. Worse yet, religious fanatics of a religion I believe is nonsense.”

The Triarch laughed. “Careful, where you speak those words, Prince Jaehaerys. Several of our Tiger Cloaks attend Benerro’s sermons daily.”

“Duly noted.” Jon replied. Being in the carriage was a respite from the bombardment of questions asked by Nyesso Vhassar and the bevy of scowls thrown by Malaquo Maegyr. They had left the other Triarchs behind by the word of Daelyx. The other men, Nyesso in particular, looked ready to protest but both seemingly respected that Jon’s meeting with the Honorro clan was a private matter.

“Still you must have some insight into their argument. We’ve heard of your march through the city and the thousands that followed. It did stir quite the shock here. The Priestess must have shared her reasoning.” Daelyx pressed. This was the closest that the Triarch had ever come to demanding information.

Jon paused and considered the ramifications of telling him the truth. Benerro’s words and scorn echoed in his head. _If he has already discussed this matter with the Priest prior to my arrival, then he knows at least one side of the red faith’s opinion._ He looked Daelyx in the eye and watched his reaction. “Kinvara claims I am the Great Emperor of the Dawn. Your Priest however, claims that I am something more sinister.”

Surprise flashed across Daelyx’s face. Whether the reaction was genuine or a mummery, Jon could not decipher. “The Great Emperor of the Dawn? A few hours in this city and you already have the masses clamoring for your conquest. Nysesso would be most jealous. He has spread his legs for a mountain of Pentoshi gold and all he has to show for his efforts is a minority seat in the Triarchy and an ever-expanding waist line. I suppose that is another perk of having a dragon.” The triarchy shook his head ruefully.

Daelyx’s reaction was unexpected. “And your thoughts on the matter?” Jon asked carefully. He flexed his sword hand.

The Triarch chucked. “Seeing as you have come to parlay alone, with no army at your back or Priestess at your side then I am assuming then that you have no interest in the machinations of that Priestess nor Benerro. Even your ancestor needed his sister wives and armies to conquer the western lands and besides Volantis is no backwater either.”

Jon smiled. “My duty and place are beyond the Narrow Sea. Once Elaerys is laid to rest, I plan to return to my home. If I ever do visit Volantis again, it will be as a tourist.”

Daelyx stroked his chin. “Still, the Priest and Priestess have raised an interesting notion. Should you ever choose to look east, then you will need allies. What better ones are to be found than us of the Old Blood? As fellow scions of the Freehold, power and greatness run more concentrated in our blood than any other.” Daelyx’s eyes took on an ambitious gleam, just for a moment and then his face turned stoic. “A discussion for another time. We are here.”

The Honorro manse sat behind brick walls twelve feet high lined with iron spikes. Behind the walls lay a palace, more beautiful than Red Keep and by the looks, nearly as large. Pointed arches of pale white stone peaked over the walls. Gargoyles guarded the many window seals and the western face was lined with ivy.

Jon noted the bevy of warriors guarding the gate and manning the walls. None bore the mark of the tiger cloaks. _A private guard._ Jon realized.

A strange feeling came over him when they passed under the portcullis. He had never stepped foot in Elaerys’s home when she had been alive. But the highest tower of the palace was visible from Viserys’s wife’s family’s home. They had used Myrish lenses and written messages to communicate on days that they could not see each other in the flesh.

The inner courtyard was a sight to behold. Men of carved marble and onyx battled fierce serpents and lions above spouting fountains surrounded by carefully manicured hedges in the shapes of manticores, basilisks and other strange creatures that Jon struggled to name.

Syraxes landed a moment later, drawing gaps and shouts from the crowd of servants, stable boys and household guards. Sunlight reflected off of her silver scales, throwing light across the surface of the fountain pools.

Jon made his way over to her, stroking her lowered muzzle to dispel any anxiety before it could arise. He heard commotion from behind him and turned to face the crowd.

In the center of the yard, nearest to the largest fountain were four women who were undoubtedly related to Elaerys. Jon recognized her sister Vhaenya, who was elder by five years. She was tall and narrow like a willow. Her hair had the same golden sheen as Elaerys but it was cut short so that it hung just past her chin. The two other younger women shared a resemblance to his late lover but they were both shorter and plainer. He barely took note of them. His eyes were transfixed on the eldest of the four. Age had added strands of silver and grey to her long blonde locks. Crows feet tugged at the corners of her amethyst eyes, but her beauty seemed undiminished. It was as if Jon was peering into a future where tragedy had never struck, and his love was allowed the time to live a full life. 

The hope reflected in her eyes brought about a deep ache within his chest. Confusion sprouted across her features when Elaerys did not appear. That confusion turned to heartbreak when Jon pulled the urn from Syraxes’ saddle.

The elder woman would have collapsed if her daughter had not caught her by the arms.

All Jon could offer were the words, “I’m so sorry”, over and over again.

 

*

 

The time spent at the Honorro manse was a somber affair. Elaerys’s mother had broken down completely from the news that he bore and had to be escorted to her chambers. Jon had found out that Elaerys wasn’t the only recent death in the family. Her two-full sisters, Baera and Daelenys, had both perished in the intermediate years when he and Elaerys were away. Baera was one of the thousands of casualties in the bout of Grey Plague that had swept across Pentos. Daelenys had the misfortune of being on a river galley overrun by pirates while touring the isles in Dagger Lake. Her body had never been recovered. The only full sibling of Elaerys still alive was Maelyx, her elder brother. Upon inquiry, Jon learned that Maelyx was out of the city on business.

Perhaps his absence was a blessing as Jon felt drained both physically and emotionally. The immediate family members of the Honorro clan were present and they all wanted some form of answer as to how Elaerys had died. Rehashing her death opened wounds that Jon had thought healed and the replay of the images in his mind were as if he was pouring salt into open sores. Jon spared them most of the details, to some of his company’s frustration.

Eventually, the topic of the conversation strayed to other details of his journey. Most of the questions were centered around Syraxes or his sword and even some inquires were made into his journey to Valyria. Jon’s vague answers shed as little light as possible until, mercifully Elaerys’s eldest sister, Naemella, called a stop to the onslaught of questions.

“Prince Jaehaerys has had a long journey. Let us give him time to rest and rejuvenate before tonight’s feast.” Naemalla was a woman near thirty and her voice seemed to hold authority in the family as the questions halted abruptly.

Daelyx was at his side a moment later and the brother-sister duo escorted him back through the manse to the courtyard. “My apologies, Prince Jaehaerys. As you can see our family can be a bit intrusive.”

“Dae speaks truly, if not understating the obvious.” Naemella flashed a smile. She was a curvy woman with silver blonde hair and full lips. “That is why we are taking mercy on you and have prepared a secluded palace at the edge of the Eastern wall for both you and Syraxes.”

“The palace was used to house visiting dragonlords and their dragons. There have been a few modifications over the years but much of the original structure remains preserved.” Daelyx added.

“And we have made sure the household is fully staffed so that your every need is met. One thing that we are unsure of is what food should be provided for Syraxes, does she have a preference?” Naemella asked. Her tone was exceedingly polite, and Jon was taken back by the speed they worked to provide accommodations. He had only been in the Honorro household for little more than two hours and now an entire Palace had been prepared for him. Jon never had the opportunity to meet Naemella before, but Elaerys had told him that Naemella was the golden child next to Daelyx’s rebel nature. He wondered if her hospitality was genuine or a convincing act.

“Thank you but Syraxes prefers to hunt for her food. Take away that pleasure and you have a restless dragon.” His words were true but he also did not want Syraxes eating any possibly poisoned food. Not that he was sure if it was even possible to poison a dragon. He had seen her devour entire carcasses, bone and all, grasses, branches, small trees and even stones. Nothing seemed to upset her stomach.

A look of alarm appeared on Naemella’s face. “Oh, is that dangerous?”

“She knows to not attack humans and will stay away from settlements.” His words were a white lie. Syraxes loved the hunt and men were simply too slow and weak to provide much fun. His dragon also liked to share her thrill over their bond and so Jon was alerted when she found her targeted prey. Vigilance was still required from him to truly ensure that Syraxes didn’t target the innocent. Without his skinchanging abilities, the task would have likely been much more difficult.

Naemella seemed to accept the answer but a look of confusion passed over Daelyx’s face. The Triarch did not voice what crossed his mind though. “Also, I have tasked a member of my personal guard to escort you. Ser Jorah is a Westerosi like yourself and should prove an excellent guide of the city.” Daelyx motioned to the man standing near the open carriage.

Jon eyed the tall Knight. The Mormonts were among the northern lords who had traveled to Winterfell to receive both him and Aegon at the start of their foster, though he could not recall Ser Jorah directly. Still, the Knight’s name and face seemed vaguely familiar.

“I’ve seen you before Ser Jorah. Not at Winterfell though?” Jon asked as he walked towards the carriage.

Ser Jorah met his gaze for a moment and then bowed his head. “Nay, it was before your time the last I set foot in that castle.”

“The Red Keep then? Did you ever travel to King’s Landing?” Jon pressed. He was sure that he had met the man when he was young, though he could not recall the exact details.

“I’ve spent some years south.” Ser Jorah said unhelpfully.

Jon frowned as the details continued to elude him. “Did you ever compete in tourneys? Knights in the North are rare enough.”

Jorah stiffened but answered, “I’ve competed in a few.” His voice was a gruff whisper.

The answer came to Jon suddenly. He remembered secretly betting against Tyrion and Daenerys, who were both convinced that Ser Jaime would win the entire tourney at Lannisport. When his mother had pointed out that Jaime’s challenger was a Knight from the North, Jon had hedged his bets against his Ser. In truth, both he and Daenerys were too young to truly bet but he had felt genuine excitement when Ser Jorah had unhorsed Jaime. Daenerys had cried tears of joy when they learned that Ser Jorah was to wed the Lady who had granted him her favor. Aegon and Jon had teased Dany relentlessly for that.

“Your wife, is she here in Volantis as well?” Jon inquired.

Jorah’s faced darkened and his response was a sullen, simple, “No.”

Jon took the hint that the topic was sensitive and abandoned his inquiry. He bid Daelyx and Naemella a goodbye, the latter reminded both him and Jorah that they were to attend a feast in a few hours.

Syraxes took the sky a moment later and their carriage exited the manse. A tiger cloak drove their two-horse carriage and Ser Jorah sat across from Jon. The large man craned his neck to watch Syraxes’s form disappear behind buildings, only to reappear a moment later.

The first ten minutes of their ride passed in silence. Jon scanned the inquisitive crowds, automatically his eyes scanned for any signs of a threat but there wasn’t any that he could detect.

Jorah’s words interrupted his musings. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Jon muttered and then as an afterthought he said, “My apologies for prying.”

Jorah grunted, a decidedly northern mannerism and replied “No apology needed. My name will forever be a reminder of my greatest mistake.” The Knight’s tone was rueful.

“We are related you and I.” Jon saw the confusion on the Knight’s face. “My uncle Benjen married Dacey Mormont.”

“I missed the wedding.“ Jorah replied. It was a simple response, but the words sparked another memory.

Jon remembered his uncle Ned leaving for weeks with Jory Cassel and some of Winterfell’s best men at arms. At the time he, Aegon and Robb were too young to understand the situation, but Theon had japed “Lord Stark will return with a bear’s head to mount in the Great Hall.”

The sudden scorn must have been visible on Jon’s face for Jorah returned a dark gaze. “It was a long time ago, boy.”

Jon’s jaw clenched. “You’re a Kinslayer.”

Jorah didn’t flinch from the harsh accusation. “Aye, I am.”

Details poured into Jon’s mind in a sudden flood. The entire North had been shocked by the news that the Lord of Bear Island had beaten his good-brother to death. Jon’s uncle Benjen had sent a raven to Winterfell, requesting assistance should Jorah choose to fight. Bear Island had been divided into two factions, those loyal to Ser Jorah and those loyal to the then recently made widow, Alysane Mormont. Ser Jorah had chosen to run rather than resist, likely when word reached him that Lord Stark himself was coming to dispense justice. _Have I really been gone so long that I have forgotten the most wanted man in the North?_ “My uncle would have executed you.” Jon watched Jorah’s eyes flick to Judgement at his side.

“He would have if he had caught me.” Jorah offered warily. His broad shoulders were tensed, and his bushy brow and beard made him seem more bear than man. As if he was an animal backed into a corner. Jon found a strange sense of delight in the comparison.

“You chose cowardice.” Jon goaded.

“I chose life.” Jorah retorted, his anger rose.

“Consider yourself lucky then, that this is not the North and I am half Stark not half Fisher.” Jon leaned back into his seat and turned his gaze away from the Bear Knight dismissively.

Ser Jorah seemed subdued by the words and stared silently at the road ahead. Jon used the silence as an opportunity to calm himself and he focused on Syraxes’s emotions. His dragon seemed intrigued by the city, its buildings and most of all its people. She flew overhead in lazy circles, both keeping pace with the speed of their carriage and allowing herself time to scan the city below. Her intrigue suddenly turned to alarm, surprising Jon, who jolted in his seat. The source of Syraxes’s worry came into view a moment later.

A massive dragon coiled around the towers of palace greeted Jon’s eyes. It took his brain a moment to reconcile the reality that the dragon was part of the structure itself. Done in the same fused black Dragonstone as the walls around the city, the dragon was a pitch black. As he drew closer he could see the level of detail dedicated by the Valyrian stonesingers as even the patterns on the scales of the dragon were visible and were as varied as the scales on Syraxes. The membrane of the dragon’s wings formed the outer walls of the structure as if the stone beast was hording the castle. Even the gate of the castle resembled the bony claw like protrusions at the end of dragon’s forelimbs.

Syraxes released a challenging roar and Jon stifled a laugh when confusion filled her mind when the dragon didn’t answer her challenge. The gate was manned by Unsullied in intricately cut, gilded armor. The guardsmen bowed as the carriage passed.

The courtyard was as queer as the outer structure. The body of the massive stone dragon rested on the main tower of the palace and its long neck craned downwards so that the entrance of the palace was sequestered within the gaping dragon’s maw. A sight that reminded Jon of the Windwyrm tower of his family’s ancestral fortress, Dragonstone.

Syraxes landed a moment later with a mighty crash as she quickly advanced towards the face of the dragon. Screams rippled throughout the crowd of servants, who quickly dived to hide behind the many yard long teeth of the stone dragon. Jon had to leap from the still moving carriage to interrupt Syraxes’s approach. The She-dragon was not aggressive towards the palace’s staff, just aggressively curious of the strange architecture. 

After Syraxes settled Jon looked to the still cowering staff. “Sorry, she is just curious.” He smiled sheepishly. Eventually, courage returned to some members of the crowd. An old, wrinkled man stepped out of the dragon’s maw and bowed deeply.

“Welcome to Rōvēgrie sombāzmion zaldrīzoti, Prince Jaehaerys. My name is Vahaedar and we are glad to be of service.” The man was grey haired and wrinkled but his blue eyes were sharp.

Jon nodded in acceptance. He couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with the situation. In less than a day he had gone from sleeping in fields and a cave to being gifted an entire ancient palace. _Practice for when we return home._ Jon reminded himself.

“I am this castle’s castellan, please come to me if there is any issue. The staff here has been handpicked to fulfill your every need.” He motioned to the other workers who all remained in deep bows.

Jon glanced over the assembly. The tattoos on their faces made their station obvious. _Slaves, what else could be expected._

The rest of the day passed quickly. Syraxes’s lodgings were directly adjacent to the main keep. It was a twisted structure of black Dragonstone, with a cavernous entrance near eighty feet high. Most the structure burrowed deep into the underground, large enough to swallow a dragon several times Syraxes’s size.

After his dragon was unsaddled, Jon was whisked off to the bath house by the serving ladies. His boots and armor were taken away to be cleaned and polished, his clothing was likely a lost cause with all the sweat and blood stains but the cleaning staff took them all the same.

His bath was an entirely awkward affair. It was custom in Volantis… most of Essos even, for Lords and Noblemen to never bathe alone. Still, four naked women joining his bath was shocking nonetheless. Smooth skin and high breasts ignited his passion and he was reminded of how long it had been since he had last touched a woman. The four covered all spectrums of preference. One was a Naathi woman with dusky skin, a flat, comely face and eyes like molten gold, a tall Summer Islander with large breast capped with dark nipples. She had wide hips and her abdomen was lined with muscle. Copper-toned skin and dark almond eyes marked the third woman as Dothraki. Most enticingly by far was the Valyrian woman. She was slender with small breasts and silver blonde hair held up in a messy bun. Even her eyes seemed the same shade of lilac. Jon swallowed, hard.

The Valyrian woman seemed to notice the effect she had generated and grew bold. As the other bathing girls soaped his shoulders and back, the Valyrian woman slid between his legs so that she nearly straddled him. She worked a sponge across his chest and then her hand trailed down his stomach.

A low gasp escaped his lips when her tiny hand gripped his manhood. His hips bucked involuntarily, drawing giggles from the other girls. The temptress whispered in Dothraki to the other ladies and Jon caught the word “Big.”

As her hand stroked him under the water, the Valyrian woman fixed a seductive gaze on Jon. _She nearly looks like her. Her lips aren’t as full, her eyebrows are too thin..._ His thoughts trailed off as his examination of her face drew his focus to the single tear tattooed under her right eye.

Suddenly disgusted Jon pushed her away, rougher than he intended. Surprise rippled throughout the group. Jon bid them a hasty apology before he retreated with a towel wrapped around his waist.

His arousal was barely diminished when he made it back to his bedchambers. Yet, he attempted to ignore his carnal desires.

Laid on his dark blue sheets was a grey toga. On the breast a red three headed dragon was sewn in. Jon marveled at the stitch work, it was considerable given the small amount of time the seamstress was given. He shrugged into the dark blue underlayer and then donned the toga. By instinct he reached for Judgement but second guessed himself. The old blood did not carry arms behind the black walls. He wondered how much offense he would draw if he broke that custom. Jon was loathe to part with the priceless sword, even for a few hours.

A knock on the bedroom door interrupted his musings. Ser Jorah appeared a moment later. The bear knight had cleaned up as well. He wore a rich sleeveless tunic and dark pants. The dark wiry hair on his arms was nearly thick enough to be sleeves themselves and the thin hair on his balding head looked freshly combed as well. “We should be going soon.” The Knight growled out in the common tongue.

Jon nodded without sparing the knight a glance. “I am aware.”

“If you are wary of thieves, don’t be. Anything happens to that sword and they’ll torture everyone here until it is returned to you.” Jorah offered.

Jon did glance at him then. “I have enough blood on my hands that I don’t need to add the castle’s staff’s as well.”

The Ser straightened his back under Jon’s gaze, drawing to his full height. He was a few inches taller than Jon and built much thicker as well. “That is not what I meant.”

Jon pushed past him, sword in hand. “It is what you said.”

“Where are you going?” asked Jorah. 

“Leaving my sword in a place no one would dare to try to steal it from.” Jon answered.

They marched through the twisting hallways of the palace. The hallways were built in the belly of the dragon and few were built straight. Instead, the walls curved in seamless bends. Stone art decorated the halls, depicting ancient figures and battles likely long forgotten.

Syraxes was already waiting when he descended the staircase leading to the garden surrounding her cavern. Jorah lagged while Jon approached her.

The dragon gently accepted Judgement in her jaw before returning to her cavern.

When they were away in the carriage Jorah said, “Your dragon seems well under control.”

Jon shook his head. “Sometimes, she listens but you can never truly tame a dragon. They aren’t simple beasts. Keeping her in line takes more effort than it looks.”

Jorah made a grunt of understanding, Jon continued. “When she’s well fed then she’s more likely to follow instructions, but if she’s hungry or angry, that is when she is the most difficult.”

Jorah laughed. “Like a woman then? Keep them clothed and fed and they might love you, though sometimes that is not enough either.”

“I suppose.” Jon said quietly, he didn’t miss the sudden heaviness of Jorah’s tone.

They reached another manse, this one in a different district than the Honorro’s. By now dusk had fallen, scattering red across the sky.

“The Old Blood love their parties and their gatherings. The funeral gives them pretext but even if you had returned with the Honorro daughter they’d feast you. Likely, they will still every night you remain.” Jorah said as they exited the carriage. Immediately, Jon could feel the stare of many eyes. They were the few without silver, white or blonde hair. The difference made them stand out immensely.

Naemella spotted them quickly. “Jaehaerys!” She called and made her way over. Her hug wasn’t something that Jon expected but the contact was not unwelcome. Her hand gripped his bicep with a squeeze and Jon followed alongside her.

She pulled him close to whisper conspiratorially. “I hope the sellsword my brother chose is not bothering you. He thought that one would be best because he is Westerosi like yourself. In truth, I think Daelyx means to bore you to death, so he can steal your dragon. “

Jon shared a laugh with her. “He is not so bad. In truth he doesn’t talk much.”

Naemella grinned. “With him I suppose it’s a blessing. Daelyx does say he is gifted with a blade, so I suppose he has his uses. And have you seen the size of him? Are you sure he’s not actually descended from a bear?”

She was his guide for much of the night. Through her Jon met presumably some of the most powerful and well-connected members of the Old Blood. Senators and their families, men with fleets of merchant ships to their names, Lords Freeholders who titled and styled themselves after the ruling cast of ancient Valyria. They spoke their condolences first and then inquired about his dragon. _How did it hatch? Male or female? How big will she grow? Are_ _there more_ _of them?_

The questions were subtle. One moment a lord would speak of the trade their ships had done in the Seven Kingdoms or of how a distant cousin of theirs had once visited Westeros and then the next moment a lord would ask if Jon could be persuaded to handle the pirates around Dagger Lake. Jon spoke fluent High Valyrian, but he was unfamiliar with the mannerisms and speech patterns unique to Volantis. Paired with their strange, subdued way of speaking and Jon was unable to discern whether his defections pleased or angered them.

Adults were not the only ones present at the gathering. The children had not yet mastered their parents subtly nor did they seem to take offence with his half answers. He found their exuberance refreshing and wasn’t the least bit perturbed when Naemella’s young son and daughter directed her attention elsewhere. She bid him an apology and a promise to return but Jon merely smiled and told her not to worry.

Without Naemella’s presence the tide of questions and people became overwhelming. His annoyance grew as the questions strayed to Elaerys and her death. _How did she die? Did she suffer? Did you use your dragon to hunt her killers?_ Servers offered glasses of wine and spiced meat with oiled peppers in small portions. Jon largely abstained from the food but found solace and escape in the wine. The more he drank however, the blacker his mood became. In order to stave off an international incident, Jon left the main hall and found himself on a balcony overlooking the palace garden.

By now the sun had set entirely but it had done little to stifle the heat. He pulled at the neckline of his underlying tunic. _Somehow it is hotter out here than inside._

From his peripheral Jon had seen the Bear Knight follow though his escort did not join him. For a time Jon lingered alone, wondering if enough time had passed before he could slip away from the gathering entirely.

A click of heels on the stone floor alerted Jon to a presence behind him. A feminine voice greeted his ears. “There you are. And here I thought the vultures had already driven you away.”

Jon turned to regard the woman and his eyes couldn’t help but appraise her form. She was long and slender with legs that led to wide hips. Dark, illustrious eyes regarded him over a pair of full wine red lips. Black hair pulled back from a widow’s peak fell in a braid over one shoulder.

He couldn’t help but smile at her boldness. “They certainly are persistent.”

“One would think birds would be of no concern to a dragon.” She stood next to him and turned her gaze to balcony’s view. The pitch darkness of the night was combated by the high moon and the oil lanterns that illuminated the streets of the city and from the light that poured forth from the party to their back. An endless belt of stars stretched across the Night’s sky, though they were dulled by the city’s lights.

“Have we met my lady?” asked Jon. With the light he could see the shade of her skin was darker than most inhabitants of the city. He was sure they hadn’t.

“If we had you would not soon forget.” She quipped without a glance at him.

“I have met many in my short time here and I will admit names do have a tendency to slip my mind.” Said Jon.

“Is my face so forgettable?” She teased. And then laughter rang in the air in response to his confusion “I am Lady Meria and no we have not had the pleasure of meeting until now.” She extended her hand and after a moment he realized that she wanted to him to kiss it. He placed a chaste kiss across her knuckles.

“Lady Meria?” Jon questioned, waiting for a surname.

“Of the Rhoyne if you must. I did not inherit my father’s surname nor my mother’s. I am what you Westerosi would call…” She trailed off searching for the word.

“Baseborn.” Jon offered.

“Bastard.” Meria said.

“I suppose that as well.”

“Does that not offend you?” Meria asked. Her eyes stared at him with an arresting intensity.

Jon shook his head. “Hardly. Why would it?”

“Do your septons not speak of the evils of a child conceived out of wedlock?” asked Meria.

“The septons have their teachings and I have my own beliefs. Your deeds define the person you are not whether your parents did or did not exchange vows.”

“It appears then that I am in good company.” She said with a smile.

“If you are not one of the vultures then what brings you here?” asked Jon, he smiled at her word choice.

“Unlike many here, I actually knew Elaerys.” Jon’s expression grew somber, but she continued. “We were friends as girls before my father came to claim me.”

Deep in his cups, Jon had lost most of his sense of decorum. “What do you wish to know?”

“Nothing that I haven’t already heard.” She pushed away from the bannister to look at him face on. “I’m here to offer my company to a fellow friend, if you would have it.”

“Aye I would.” said Jon.

For the next hour, Meria told Jon stories of Elaerys’s youth. Some he had heard already, many he hadn’t. The light-hearted tales brought a smile to his face.

“You know…” She started after taking a sip from her wine glass. They sat across from each other on a pair of plush cushions. He sat with his back straight, knees bent with both feet on the floor while Meria lounged, spread out across her seat. The hem of her dress rose to reveal smooth thighs. “They will drive you insane or seek form of contract. I am surprised that the new Triarch has not tried recruiting you for his army.”

Jon raised a brow. “I believe I can handle myself.”

“Can you?” Meria asked. For some strange reason the skepticism on her face reminded him of his elder sister Rhaenys. “I am sure that is why you are out here discussing the past with me instead of in there-“ She pointed inside. “- fielding marriage proposals and sellsword contracts.”

“We are speaking of marriage then?” Jon japed.

“Make no mistake, there will be proposals. Perhaps, the first night is too soon but come tomorrow…” She trailed off and flashed a smile.

Daenerys and Dragonstone appeared in his head, just for a moment before he shook the thought away. “It is a simple matter to refuse them.” He replied.

“Will you refuse their gifts as well? The Old Blood are strange to the uninitiated, but they fight their wars with words and gifts. Favors are as much of currency here as coin. And they will look to give and collect from the world’s last Dragonlord. “said Meria. Her dress slipped low on her shoulder, exposing the entirety of her collar. Despite himself, Jon was unable to draw his eyes away.

“I sense a proposal coming.” He muttered.

Meria rolled her eyes. “You need someone who is well versed in the dynamics of Old Volantis and who also knows not to pester.”

Jon smiled. “And that is you I presume?”

One corner of Meria’s full lips turned upward. “Perhaps. If you deem me worthy of the task.”

“And going by your own words, that favor is currency. What is our exchange?” asked Jon. He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned forward.

“You are learning.” Meria joked.

“I’ve never claimed to be the smartest, but I do pride myself on learning my lessons quickly.” Jon replied. “Now, answer the question.”

“A ride on your dragon.”

“I am afraid that is not entirely my decision.” A look of confusion appeared on Meria’s face. Jon spoke again. “My dragon must judge you worthy.”

“I do not ask for myself. My little brother… half brother has always been fascinated with dragons.” She looked hopeful.

His initial urge was to deny her outright, but Kinvara had already rode with him, granted they had not flown. Syraxes was willful as well as naturally distrusting. Tyrion, Gerion could rarely approach her and never without fear of what she would do and they had known her since she was a hatchling. Jaime was the exception, it seemed Syraxes respected the strength of the Knight. “I make no promises, but we can certainly try.”

“Even if he can only just see her I know that he will be happy.” said Meria. There was a sudden emotion in her eyes that was different than the usual playful smiles that accompanied her banter.

“Your brother is fortunate to have such a sister.”

Meria’s nose wrinkled. “I am not sure how to receive that compliment. Is it not customary for Targaryens to wed brother and sister?”

Jon struggled for a retort while Meria laughed at his expense. “Alas, my future husband is only eight.” She said.

He narrowed his eyes. “That was not what I meant.”

Her smirk returned, it was quickly growing familiar. “I know. But you did not answer my question. Is there a sister or two back home to make your bride? I assume the incest comes along with the dragon.”

“Targaryen women are among the most beautiful in the world.” He paused. “And I have two sisters, three if you include my younger aunt. She was raised like a sister as well.”

“Will I be receiving a wedding invitation soon?” Meria asked.

Jon merely smiled. “I am sure secrets can be counted as currency too. I do not intend to spend all of mine in a single night.”

Meria pouted. “Very well. I will take that as an assurance of more nights between us to come. It appears we need more wine in you as well.”

And so they talked and drank, so much so that Jon felt a lightness in his limbs and a persistent smile on his face. Meria told him stories of her father: a sellsword, merchant and prolific traveler. She told him of her sisters of which she had many and of her brother who was born months early and was often sick. The woman had traveled much of Essos, the entire Rhoyne, Norvos, Pentos and Bravos. Before he realized, the party emptied. Jorah stood at the entrance to the balcony.

“I would advise departing soon, Your Grace. The ceremony begins early tomorrow.” Ser Jorah said.

Jon looked to Meria. “An escort needed my lady?” His words were slurred.

“If you would be so kind.” Meria took his offered hand and they followed Jorah back to the carriage where Meria gave instructions to the driver.

On the road to her family’s abode, Meria leaned against him and almost upon instinct Jon placed an arm over her shoulder. There was a subtle smile on her lips but she continued her story. “… Ada tried netting the beast and nearly lost an arm for her efforts. Never have I seen father so proud and yet so angry.”

“I imagine she learned her lesson.” Jon responded.

“Hardly, the bitch wishes she had a cock between her legs, maybe one she could detach and fuck herself with.”

Jorah snorted in laughter. For most of their ride he was silent but apparently the vulgarity of the conversation was enough to break his silence.

“You find women with dicks funny Bear Knight?” Meria questioned.

Jorah shrugged. “My aunt and her daughters sound like your sister. Strong, yes but always needing to prove they are as strong as a man.”

“Make no mistake, my sister can kill just as well as any man. I take issue that she needs to point out that fact at every opportunity.”  Meria said.

“And you?” Jon asked. “What are your talents?”

Meria’s smile grew wider. “I have many _my prince.”_ The words rolled off her tongue. “Perhaps, we can spar sometime. My family has an underground dojo if you need to escape the heat.”

Her families home was in the same district as the Honorro’s though by the appearance of the outer walls and the gate, the manse was significantly smaller. Meria’s hand brushed against Jon’s shoulder as he helped her from the carriage.

“Until tomorrow then?” She asked with a raised brow.

“Tomorrow.” Jon promised. He watched her until she disappeared behind the inner gate.

When they were away in their carriage Jorah said, “That was an invitation if I have ever seen one.”

Jon shrugged. “I think she is just friendly.”

Jorah snorted. “Perhaps, word of caution from an old man. The more beautiful the woman the more dangerous.”

Deciding to humor him Jon asked, “And why is that?”

“Beautiful women are akin to a sweet, slow acting poison. The more you are with them, the more you invite the death of what you are. By the time you are made aware of the danger then there is little left to salvage or you drink the poison willingly.”

“Useful advice, perhaps you should have followed it with your wife.” Jon said.

Jorah grit his teeth but remained silent.

Jon retrieved his sword from Syraxes before the dragon vaulted to the sky, away to hunt. Many of her favored prey were active at night.

The soft bed was far more comfortable than grass or stone but still he found sleep difficult. His dreams were short but at one point he was Ghost.

His head rose, and he spotted his sister and aunt reading in bed. Daenerys leaned against Visenya her head on the younger girl’s shoulder as Visenya hunched over a massive tome.

Daenerys locked eyes with him and she patted her thigh. Jon tried to ignore the gesture, but Ghost was all too eager for the attention and padded over to her. The Direwolf laid his head in her lap and Jon could feel Ghost’s pleasure when Daenerys stroked the skin behind his hears. Visenya briefly abandoned her book to scratch his nose.

_Traitor._ Jon thought. Still, he could not deny how great it felt to be close to them once again.

Eventually the connection slipped. Jon woke, alone and thousands of miles away. His room had a large, eastern facing window and the drapes were opened wide. He preferred to wake with the sun.

In the corner of his room, his armor was polished and displayed on a stand. His breeches and shirt were as clean as he had ever seen them. Even the sweat and bloodstains were absent. Jon tugged on the breeches, tied his boots and forewent a shirt. Judgement was in his hands a moment later and he soon found the yard to perform his morning training. Ser Jaime had drilled with him each day at dawn. _You will have the whole day with bruises to remind yourself of your mistakes. Wear them proudly and most of all, learn from them._ The Knight had once said. Jon had never bested him, not when Jaime’s two hands were of flesh and blood and now with his hand of Valyrian steel, Jon wondered if that feat was made impossible.

Meria showed an hour into his training, unannounced with the Bear Knight following. She wore a black dress of velvet and a matching black feathered hat. Her nose wrinkled as she regarded him. “As pretty as you are, you will need a bath before we go.”

Surprised she was here, Jon looked to Ser Jorah. The Bear Knight shrugged noncommittally.

Meria noticed the exchange. “You have an hour before the ceremony. I’d thought you would like to know what to expect before making a fool of yourself.”

Jon held up his hands in apology. “I appreciate the gesture. Truly!”

He bathed quickly, forgoing the tub in favor of a warm bucket of water and a sponge. Meria had clothes prepared for him when he emerged. He eyed the startlingly white garments in confusion. 

“White, black and red are the colors of life, death and the balance between. White represents the life that was lived, black the conclusion and the subsequent journey to the Underworld and red is blood. By tradition on the first days of mourning, women wear black while the men don white. The family of the deceased wears red until the last day where everyone dons the color.” Meria explained.

Jon frowned, a bit overwhelmed. “I was not aware.”

“That is why I am here.” She smiled brightly. “Now, get dressed.” When he gave her a look she turned and walked from his chambers.

The clothing was form fitting, so much so that the shirt seemed to hug his chest and shoulders before growing loose around his abdomen. It ended at his knees.

Jon gathered his sword and was a bit amused at the look of awe that adorned Meria’s face when he greeted his dragon. Syraxes paid their audience little attention. Her large eyes scanned his form, searching for any sign of injury. When she was satisfied no harm had befallen him while they were apart, the dragon gently took his sword in her maw and returned to the cavern.

Meria sat across from him in the carriage, while Ser Jorah sat with their driver. Jon eyed her. Cross-legged with her large feathered hat and sleeveless dress, she looked as elegant as any highborn lady. Her eyes met his. “Most of the Old Blood are not religious but the traditionalist hold sway. You are a person of high honor and be rest assured that they will look for any mistake.”

“No pressure then.” Jon japed.

“I am sure you can handle a bit of pressure. Besides this first ceremony is simple, candle lighting, a speech by the Priest and then we are done.” Her smile was infectious and Jon could feel his mood lighten despite the impending ceremony.

“That does sound simple.” He said.

“Syrax does not demand much. The other gods demand more. To Visagar, an offering must be made to join the deceased in the afterlife, Caraxes demands a show of strength and valor. The others have their own demands but the most interesting in my opinion is Myraxes, goddess of love, desire and fertility. I think you can infer that offering.” Meria grinned.

“Sounds queer for a funeral.” He frowned at the suggestive nature of her tone.

“Fourteen different gods, each covering a different aspect of what it means to be human. These days are as much a time to mourn Elaerys as they are to celebrate the life that she lived.” Meria finished. Jon nodded in understanding.

A black monolith appeared in the distance, rising like a massive spear meant to impale the sky. Carved into the side of the building was a woman with scaled skin and a torso that ended in a serpent’s tail. The closer they drew, the more details Jon could see. Her hands had four fingers, claw-like and where her nipples and breast should have been, spikes and scales were present instead.

Every god of Valyria had some draconic or reptilian aspect, that he knew. It was one eason why the dragonlords of old were so revered. _They were closer to the gods than all the others._

The courtyard of the temple was a sea of black and white, filled with mourners of the Volantene high society. Ser Jorah led them through the crowd. He was dressed in neutral colors, a tunic and breeches of grey that appeared white in the sunlight.

Meria pressed close to Jon’s side. Her arm linked with his. Despite his recent arrival, it seemed he was recognized on sight by most. Hair rose on the back of his neck in response to the weight of the stares, unlike last night no one approached them for which Jon was grateful.

A bell soon chimed, and the crowd began filling the temple. A cavernous chamber enveloped them, easily as massive as the throne room at the Red Keep. The interior walls were unhewn, giving the interior a cave like appearance. A hole was cut in the ceiling, a light well where the only source of natural light came from the thirty-foot-wide opening near a hundred and fifty feet above. Daylight did not reach the floor of the temple but instead pooled along one side of the well.

Unlit candles lined the sides of the temple and the isles between the long, stone carved and backless benches. At the forefront of the chamber stood a rough altar of obsidian. Despite the sweltering heat outside, the temple had an uncomfortable chill.

Ser Jorah led them to their reserved seating near the front of the chamber. For several minutes people flowed into the chamber, guided by priests in elaborate robes of red, black and white. When all were seated another bell rung. Its chime reverberated throughout the chamber. All eyes turned to the entrance as the Honorro clan flowed in.

They were clad in hooded robes of deep crimson with opposing seams of black and white along the arms. Daelyx led the clan of over forty, Naemella and her sisters followed behind the Triarch. Flanked between them was presumably the bowed form of Elaerys’s mother.

Naemella’s young son spied Jon and paused to wave at him. Jon returned the greeting and an aunt guided the boy to continue his walk. They sat at the benches carved into the base of the altar.

A Priest took to the altar and began to speak, “Gathered we are here today to begin to lay to rest the soul of Elaerys, a daughter of Honorro. Syrax is the first of the fourteen Great Old Ones and to her we must pay tribute. Let us ask for her wisdom and her mercy.” He scanned the crowd and then his eyes landed on Jon. “The Great Old Ones have blessed the world once again with their children. I am told our daughter, a child of the Old Blood, helped bring dragons back to the world. Let her endeavor in life and her sacrifice be the mold of the bond forged between the scions of Old Valyria and the last Dragonlord.”

Those nearest turned their eyes to Jon and he steeled his face to not let his emotions reveal themselves. Internally he was seething. _You dare._ Meria squeezed his hand.

There was only the sound of light coughs and breathing in the throne room. Jon stared at the Priest, narrowing his eyes only slightly to convey his annoyance. The priest was the first to break their stare and a clearing of Daelyx’s throat caused the priest to stutter through the rest of his sermon. “Syrax, we seek your wisdom…”

Time moved slowly as the Priest stuttered in High Valyrian. The most interesting part of the ceremony came when an acolyte sliced his hand and then dipped it in a burning cauldron. With his hand on fire, the acolyte wrote flaming Valyrian glyphs that disappeared as soon as the next was started.

He had seen Red Priests and Pyromancers do the same throughout his travels but still watched closely to discern the method behind the magic. Often such tricks were simple illusions but the most talented could perform feats that defied logic.

When the ceremony finally finished, three hours had passed, and Jon’s arse had fallen asleep. He and Meria shuffled along with the others to pay their respects to the family. Elaerys’s sisters recognized Meria instantly, Elaerys’s mother flashed a brief smile  at his companion but turned away before Jon could meet her eye.

“Apologies for the Priest, Prince Jaehaerys. The Faith are a zealous lot and a dragon so close makes them bolder. You can imagine his excitement at having Syraxes in the city, as well as yourself.” Daelyx said when they reached him.

“No apology needed. I was simply caught unaware.” Jon replied.

“Understandable. This is my sister’s funeral and I will personally inform the Order that there is no room for politics in these proceedings." A scan of the Triarch’s face led Jon to believe in the sincerity of his words. He nodded.

Daelyx turned to Meria. “It has been a long while and you have grown even more beautiful. You are in great company, Jaehaerys.”

Meria dipped her head in greeting. “You honor me Triarch. I am simply keeping our guest entertained.”

Daelyx smiled and glanced at the long line of mourners, “It appears I will be here for some time. I suggest resting before tonight. Meria should prove an excellent guide of the city if you should choose to explore.”

Meria clasped Jon’s hand in hers and led him out of the temple. Ser Jorah was already in the courtyard with their carriage ready. They were riding away from the temple grounds moments later.

“Not so terrible, was it?” Meria asked. The cloth cover of their carriage was up, protection from the blistering sun. She had removed her hat and untied her hair, so it feel in waves around her shoulder. The move was almost intimate as most Volantene noble women either cut their hair short or wore it high and restrained.

“I suppose.” Jon offered quietly. She was seated across from him and patted his knee.

“Do not start brooding now. Elaerys would not want that.” Jon could not help but smile. Elaerys used to tease him for his tendency of long, pensive silences. Jon knew his mother did the same to his father.

“Worry not. There are several things to do in this city that will keep a smile on your pretty face. Fortunate for you I am an excellent guide.”

Meria’s words were true. The days did pass quicker with her company. Eating for the Old Blood was a chance to conduct business and as such they had establishments that served food, wine and a bitter drink called coffee. These establishments were unlike the food stalls and inns in Westeros. Where the former served mostly simple food for the lowborn city folk and the latter served meals only twice a day, once at dawn and the other at dusk, these eateries were open for several hours and were solely devoted to serving food and drink.

Each day, they went to a separate establishment and each place served a different, exotic dish. Southern Essosi dishes were of far richer flavor than from what he could remember of Westeros. Volantis had the best dishes of all. Spices from far flung regions such as Yi Ti and Jhogos Nai added flavor to meats and greens that Jon would have not thought possible. Poison was the last thought on his mind but Jorah would insist a member of the staff taste each dish before he and Meria ate.

After the first day, they could not escape the crowds at each ceremony and a gathering of nobles would demand Jon’s time and ear. Meria would simply invite the nobility to dine with them. Food and wine added merriment to the conversation and each establishment they went to had flutists and harpists whose skill could challenge his father’s.

He must have met with hundreds of people and Meria certainly had to inform the owner’s of each eatery in advance of their coming as their accompanying party would quickly dominate the entire place. The Old Blood, like the nobility of Westeros lived a life of leisure. Meals, drinks and music would last for hours. Normally, such sedation would frustrate Jon but whenever he grew quiet or became distracted by his thoughts, Meria would draw his attention back to the present.

Politics were a frequent topic of discussion and while Jon mostly remained on the sideline due to his noncommittal answers when asked for an opinion, he bore witness to the clash of different ideologies of the Old Blood. Often those who accompanied him and Meria were senators, family members of a senate member, benefactors and those passionate enough to share their opinion.

Daelyx’s policies and his rise to power were topics brought up with an almost dizzying frequency. The new Triarch had run on a political platform that was consistent with his parties overarching philosophy. What made Daelyx different and so successful was from where he drew his support. The vast majority of those who voted for Daelyx were freemen and property owners not of the Old Blood. Typically, these voters formed the core of the Elephant party’s base, which had enabled the Elephants to maintain a ruling majority on the Triarchy for some three hundred years.

No longer, for Daelyx had flipped the base to the Tiger party and crushed the Elephants in the recent election. Nyesso Vhassar only maintained his seat due to all the gold he had spent, they said.

Jon learned in snippets that recent conflicts with Lys, Myr and Tyrosh prompted Daelyx to begin rebuilding Volantis’s armies. Now, the ranks were swelling with freemen and slaves alike. A few grumbled that Daelyx was far too close to the Red Faith and Jon’s march to the Long Bridge brought questions about his relationship with the Faith as well. Jon assured the crowds multiple times that his relationship with the Faith was brief and of no consequence.

Days after his arrival, news of his battle in the Dothraki sea reached the city. When Jon confirmed the reports, a cheer broke out at the evening gathering they were attending. Few things were hated more than the Dothraki in Volantis and for many the Dothraki were a scourge meant to be eradicated. Several men, without proper authority, called for the mobilization of Volantis’s armies to end the scourge once and for all. The cries and enthusiasm for a complete destruction of the Dothraki did not abate, even when Jon made it clear that he had no further plans to engage the Horselords.

What struck Jon was the sheer popularity of Daelyx. Amongst the youth, Daelyx was the promise of something new. Their excitement was palpable. The elders were more cautious, many had vested interest in the Elephants and their emphasis on trade.

Traditionalists were angry that Daelyx had skipped the senate entirely in his rise to power. Very few Triarchs had never participated in senate politics before being elected to one of the high seats and as such, it was seen almost as a requisite. Despite these misgivings, these detractors were muted by the tide of his supporters.

Whenever Daelyx spoke, everyone around him stopped to listen. He had a commanding presence that reminded Jon of his father. The Triarch seemed to bask in the center of chaos, wielding only smiles and clever words that both enthralled and amused. Naemella was his counterpart, often by her brother’s side with a charm that only added to Daelyx’s magnetism.

They were so successful in drawing attention that the host of the present gathering, Triarch Nysesso Vhassar looked a guest in his own home. And what a home it was. Far large than any of the palaces they had visited previously. This gathering was the most extravagant by far.

Nearly nude serving girls in silken dresses of gold served elaborate dishes. More than once, Jon saw a patron pick a girl and disappear into some more private area of the manse. There were boys there too. Young, powdered and effeminate. They too disappeared into the quieter corners of the manse. Some patrons were content to pair amongst themselves, men with women who were not their wives and women with men who were not their husbands and on occasion the pair was of the same gender. Those who remained in the open were blatant with their affections though not nude. Wine was sipped, hands teased across clothing and a few light kisses were exchanged.

“The privacy is out of respect for you I reckon. Normally, gatherings after the day of Myraxes descend into an orgy.” Meria had said.

Today's ceremony had been strange as well. Each of the fourteen were said to represent the different aspects of humanity and their individual ceremonies were reflective of the aspect they represented. Myraxes the goddess (or god, all of the gods were said to be both male and female) of love, desire and fertility demanded a ceremony that would have made Sansa’s septa die from shock.

Jon had never once considered himself a prude, but the ceremony paired with this party was too much for him. After being propositioned by both women and a few, bolder men, he had found solace on a balcony overlooking the palace garden. Meria was with him. After eleven days in the city, she had become a close friend.

They shared a bottle of sweet red and Meria lounged on a long, cushioned seat behind him. He was turned away from her, standing, so as not to stare at the smooth expanse of her legs, bared to mid-thigh.

“Tell me of this Daenerys.” Meria said.

Surprised, Jon turned to her. “What?” he asked.

“You have spoken of your parents, your siblings, grandmother and tiresome uncle and yet you never speak of her. There must be some reason?”

“Secrets are currency remember?” he smiled weakly.

Meria pouted. “I believe that I have told you enough of my own that I am owed a secret or two. Do you not trust me?”

He did. She had told him of her brother, born weak and sickly and thought not long to live. He had met the boy on his sixth day here and to his surprise, Syraxes consented when Jon placed the small child in his lap and bid her to fly. It was good timing as her saddle was now to small to fit her. His defenses crumbled and he laid next to Meria. “What do you wish to know?”

“This woman must be special. Four years without sight of her and yet you have ignored every advance.” She was on her side, propped above him on one arm. Her hair hung in a loose bun, strands spilling out of their bind. Her dress slipped low on one shoulder.

“She is special.” Jon admitted.

“Then why not speak of her?” She titled her head.

Jon dropped his gaze. “I failed her.” _I failed them both._

“Failed?” She repeated and then he saw his words register. “Elaerys?” When he nodded, her brow furrowed. “Were you and Daenerys betrothed before?”

“No, though that is what we wanted. Instead I left.” Jon stated.

“And found yourself a dragon, a fancy sword… and Elaerys.” Meria finished.

“Aye.”

“You were a boy when you last saw her. Four years is a long while. Are you sure that her feelings have not changed? What if she has found her own Elaerys? Dorne is full of handsome men… even knights if that is what she prefers.” Her words were said lightly, joking even but her expression soon grew somber.

“You still love her.” She said quietly.

“Aye.” Jon admitted.

“Elaerys would not have liked that.” Meria whispered. There was no accusation in her voice but the words still impacted like a war-hammer. 

“She did not.” Jon muttered.

They were quiet for a moment. “You do not have to answer but you said Elaerys died by a Khal and his bloodriders. She was separated from you, was she not? They would have never touched her otherwise.”

Jon’s eyes closed in shame. “Aye, we were apart when they attacked her.”

He heard Meria breathe heavily. “An argument?” He nodded. “Over Daenerys?”

“Yes.” This was the first that he had admitted his folly. His companions knew the entirety of the tale but those who heard the story from Elaerys’s family only knew that the Dothraki killed his love. Not why she left their camp, not why she was so vulnerable.

“You would never abandon her, that much is clear. She walked away in anger, did she not?” Meria questioned.

Jon nodded. “But still-“

Meria pressed against him. “Do not be a fool. Neither of you could have predicted what occurred and you have avenged her. You have done all that anyone could expect.”

_She was pregnant!_ He wanted to scream, instead his jaw tightened.

“Are you intent on letting yourself suffer?” She asked softly.

“I am fine. Enjoying myself even.” Jon smiled halfheartedly.

“Through a great effort on my part. Otherwise you would sulk and brood.” Meria shook her head. There was a rueful smile on her face.

“And I appreciate your efforts without-“ His words were swallowed by the press of her lips against his. She used his surprise to her advantage and deepened their kiss. Her tongue was as sweet as the wine they drank. His hands rose to push her away but instead they settled on her hips. Meria pushed a knee between his thighs and settled on top of him. Jon’s body’s response to her was instant and powerful.

It was a struggle to pull away from her but he did by a gentle grab of her hips. “Meria?” he questioned.

“I know you are not so dense, Jae.” Never did she look so seductive. Perched above him with dark eyes filled with passion. “You could have not noticed all the signs. I have seen the way you look at me and you know how I look at you. Elaerys would want you to be happy. Let yourself live.”

When she kissed him again his body betrayed him. His hips rose to meet hers and he hissed when his hardness brushed against her. Her dress was soft beneath his hand and the slit parted so that he was greeted by smooth skin. Meria was a tantalizing mix of softness and muscle that was undeniably feminine. Fingers worked in his hair and dragged along his scalp. Her beauty, her teasing, her humor and his abstinence all worked against him, narrowing his world to where their bodies met.

The pleasure worked like a fog, clouding his thoughts. Yet, even as he was lavished under her kisses a face formed in his mind. A woman’s face. At first it was Elaerys but as he coused, the face morphed into Daenerys. Then it was his mother, sisters and grandmother. Each face was disapproving. Elaerys’s was angry, the same face that he had last seen when she was alive. Daenerys was heartbroken. His mother and grandmother looked disappointed. Visenya was sad.

“What is wrong?” Meria asked. Her smile faltered when she saw his expression.

“I cannot.” Jon said simply.

“Cannot?” Meria repeated. Her hand gripped his cock through his clothing. Jon bit back a moan. He was as stiff as he could remember. “Or won’t?”

Jon shook his head. “It would not be right. Elaerys has not been laid to rest.”

“This is how we celebrate her memory. Wallowing only harms yourself. It does no honor to her.” There was the slightest sign of annoyance.

“It is not just Elaerys.” Jon whispered. They both sat up, though Meria still straddled him.

She laughed, a sound he once found near musical and now it only sparked his own annoyance. “ I do not want to marry you, Jon. When these nights are done then you can return to your Princess and live your song.”

He frowned. “You do not understand.”

“But I do. Your Princess went to Dorne… I have been to Dorne. I know what it is like. Do you think she did not find a lover? Someone to warm her bed while Elaerys warmed yours? There is no shame in sex in Dorne and Dornish men are just as enticing as their women.”

Despite himself, those words ignited something fierce and ugly within him. _I am a hypocrite._ “Daenerys is not Dornish.”

“Precisely. Dorne is most tempting to those denied the freedoms the Dornish enjoy. Your Princess is likely doing the same as we are now.” She leaned to kiss him but Jon pushed her from his lap.

A scowl was on his face. Meria met his eyes and did not flinch. She sighed. “I hope you have your song, Jae. But you know nothing.” And then she stalked away.

Jon sat there, alone, confused and frustrated. The likely truth of Meria’s words only dampened his mood further. After several minutes of silence, the sound of footsteps made him turn his head.

To his surprise Daelyx stood in the doorway. The Triarch wore his circlet and looked ever regal. “I am surprised Meria is not with you, she has been your constant companion since the first night.”

His words were true. For the past eleven days Meria had spent several hours with him, from early morn to late at night. “She left.” Jon said simply.

Daelyx nodded. “Well, I came to steal some of your time from her. Would you mind walking with me? I believe we have matters to discuss.”

Intrigued, Jon said, “Very well.”

Daelyx waved away Jorah who looked to follow. The Knight fell back, subdued. Curious gazes greeted them but Daelyx walked past the other guests with a determined gait. Jon matched his stride and walked alongside him.

They exited the manse, forgoing a carriage in favor of continuing on foot. Nyesso Vhassar’s manse was in the eastern portion of the city, near the temple of Syrax and directly adjacent to the barracks and fortifications lining the black wall.

“Have you been to the top of the wall? I imagine it is not as impressive as the back of a dragon but there is still a wonderful view of the city.” Daelyx said, turning to regard him.

“No, I have not.” Jon said. He wondered Daelyx’s intentions. While Nyesso Vhassar had made various attempts to gain Jon’s ear, and Malaquo Maegyr had stared at Jon suspiciously, Daelyx remained polite and maintained his distance.

There were several support structures along the black walls, housing for over a thousand Tiger Cloaks that guarded the inner-city day and night. The perimeter guards saluted Daelyx on his approach.

“Triarch Honorro.” The Tiger cloak inclined his head. A gleam from the light of the torches was present on his bald head.

Daelyx clasped the guard’s shoulder. “Prepare the lift for us, friend.”

The guard nodded and rushed to follow the order.

“You have had time to grow accustomed to life in our city. Tell me, what is your impression?” Daelyx asked. His voice was a deep baritone, back straight and shoulders squared, the Triarch stood close to Jon. At near six and a half feet, Daelyx towered over him.

“Strange, there are delights and customs here that would not be found in Westeros.” Jon answered. It was at times like these that he wished he would grow faster. _I hope Aegon is not much taller. I should be taller than Rhae too._

“Strange I can agree, especially for life behind these walls. You have spent sometime here before. Has your impression of the Old Blood changed?”

There had been some surprise when Jon revealed his previous stay in Volantis under a false moniker and identity. Viserys’s goodfamily had gained many admirers after it became known that they had housed Jon and his companions. A comparatively minor family, the Venigars welcomed the increased attention. Jon struggled to form a tactile response. “A hospitable people.” He answered.

“Entitled and weak you mean.” Daelyx said with a laugh. “Do not be so surprised. I am aware of my society’s shortcomings. Behind these walls you will find some of the most well learned, intelligent and opiniated people in the world. From a young age every child, girls and boys are taught about the world that once was. They are filled with the histories that survived the Doom. Of the Ghiscari incursions and their savagery and how the early dragonlords beat them each time and eventually broke them. Of how the Rhoynar grew envious of the success and power of the Freehold and how their envy turned them to deceit and treachery.   As they grow older, the children even learn about the present world outside of these walls. Every child knows of the kingdom that Aegon the Conqueror built after he destroyed the dreams of a new Freehold. They are even taught about the lands of the lands east of Qarth and yet despite this knowledge of the sheer vastness of the world and all it has to offer most of the Old Blood will spend the majority of their lives behind these walls. Living and dying in the same place as their ancestors. Foolishness can be attributed to them as well I suppose.”

“Is that why you left Volantis when your father was still alive? If so, why return?” Jon asked. Elaerys had told him of Daelyx’s departure and her father’s subsequent anger.

“I wanted to learn of the world that Volantis once sought to lay claim to. I have been to each of the free cities, even the ruins of Essaria. Traveling so far for so long granted a perspective that eventually would win my seat in the Triarchy. A sailor, a merchant, a guard and for years a sellsword I have been. When I returned to Volantis I was the captain of the Company of the Rose.” They followed as the guard led them to the lift. “A curious history that Company. The founders were men and women of the North who refused to bend the knee to The Conqueror. Many of their descendants remain in the company perhaps some are your distant cousins. My journey brought no favors amongst the traditionalists but among the youth beneath these walls and the freeman beyond, I am an enigma. In a similar vein to yourself.”

The lift moved smoothly underneath them and threw the gaps in the panels Jon could see the inner city grow distant as they rose into the sky. “Did you not win the popular vote? I am sure there is more to your success than being a mystery.”

Daelyx smiled. “I see you have been paying attention to our politics.”

Jon shrugged. “Through the eating and drinking I needed something to occupy my mind. And you are right, the Volantenes are opiniated.”

“Our elections and debates must seem strange to a Westerosi. To gain power in Volantis you must either have the right of blood or coin, some are blessed with both. My detractors lament that I was never elected to the senate, but it is precisely for this reason why I am trusted by so many outside these walls. I have the birth right of the Old Blood and yet I have walked beyond these walls and established my own legacy before I depended upon my family’s name. Again, similar to yourself.”  There was a gleam in Daelyx’s eyes as he spoke and Jon could hear the strength in his voice.

“I suspect this is not a mere pleasant walk.” Jon intoned. There was a light breeze atop the wall. The wind rustled their hair and clothing.

“No. I hope you will forgive me and answer this question. If my sister survived would you have lived in Volantis, or returned to your father’s kingdom?” They leaned against the battlements. The stones were warm to the touch.

Jon gazed out across the city. From his vantage point he could see the long bridge stretch across the bulk of the Rhoyne. Lanterns in the towers of the bridge gave the structure a fiery serpent like appearance. Past the bridge was West Volantis, a patchwork of lights and pitch darkness. “I do not know.” He answered.

“Did you not speak of it?” Daelyx asked.

“We did but no conclusion was ever reached. Elaerys wanted to return home, as did I.” said Jon.

“I wish my sister were still here. As I suspect she would be enough to convince you to stay.”

“I have my duty to my family.” Jon responded.

“And yet you have been away for many years.” The Triarch quipped.

Jon turned to him. “You were gone for many years as well. If there is anyone who should understand the call to home, then it is you.”

“Ah… yes I have returned home after an extended absence, but my return was not entirely due to homesickness nor wishing to see my family again. Again, I suspect we are similar. Did you think Braavosi ships entering the Smoking Sea and _returning_ would go unnoticed? By passing Volantis certainly was a nice touch but information does travel. You are chasing a legacy of your own as am I.”

“And what of it?” Jon asked.

“We are similar you and I. Westeros is called home and yet you are the world’s only dragonlord and a dragonlord's home for five thousand years was in the east. “

Jon scoffed. “Valyria remains a ruin. Would you have me remain there?”

“No. I was not speaking of Valyria but its heir, Volantis.” replied Daelyx. “We have more knowledge of Valyria than your Citadel can dream of, and to acquire our knowledge you need not enslave yourself with your own chain.”

“I have no wish to remain in Volantis.” Jon stated bluntly.

“What do you find so abhorrent of our city that you would not even consider Volantis? If it is your family, you miss then I suspect your dragon will make the journey much shorter.”

“Your slaves for one.” Jon answered quickly.

“A good reason. Did you now that many slaves run to work for sellsword companies? Most are returned for a price, but those who are not discovered or show talent in combat can either die in combat or rise through the company. I have shared bread with former slaves, fought besides them and mourned men who have fallen. Unlike many of my contemporaries I know the potential of these men and do not wish to see that potential wasted.” Daelyx spoke.

“You mean to end slavery? To give them their freedom?” Jon asked, surprised. Slavery had existed in Volantis for eons, the concept of owning another human being was as ingrained into Volantene society as chivalry was to a Knight.

“End it?” The words were said with a scoff. “You Westerosi find slavery so abhorrent yet none of you know what it truly means to be free.” The Triarch brushed his hands against the black walled battlements.

“Freedom is the choice to live your own life. To be the master of your own destiny, not to fear the whip or spend your days in chains. And certainly not to be branded with ridiculous tattoos for the rest of your life.” Jon’s voice rose with his indignation. _Nothing but a slaver. You claim to be enlightened but you are just as blind as those you mock._

Daelyx smiled, showing a perfect set of white teeth. His eyes looked predatory. “Are your peasants the masters of their own destiny? Nobles tell their serfs where to live, who to marry, when to go to war and finally when to die. Your smallfolk are as much as slaves as those in chains beyond these walls. The only difference is that they are fooled into believing that they are free.”

_A false equivalency. Our people are not sold like livestock._ Jon thought vehemently. “The smallfolk might live more difficult lives, but they still have freedoms that simply do not exist for slaves.” He argued.

Daelyx’s smile only grew wider as if he was aware of some detail Jon was currently not aware of. “If a slave refuses to do the task his master asks of him then he is whipped. What happens to your farmers if they refuse to hand over a portion of their harvest or if a mother refuses the call of her liege lord to send her only son to war?”

_Whipped or worse._ Jon thought with a grimace. He chose not to answer.

“Freedom is a lie. An ideal that stopped existing in the name of progress. You Westerosi sell it, very successfully I might add... most cannot see the shackles on their wrists.” Daelyx turned towards Jon and he leaned against the battlements.

“Then what lie are you intending to sell?” Jon asked. _He is clever, and his words were wrapped in silk._ This was one of the moments that Jon wished he had the quick wit of Tyrion. _Daelyx and the Lannister would be a war of words._

“Lie?” Daelyx smirked and he let the question hang in the air. “I do not intend to sell a lie, Prince. What I give my people is a promise.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. Years with Tyrion had accustomed Jon to speech lined with subtext, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed it. “Speak plainly.”

“Humor me. I need to make my pitch.” Daleyx stood straight and motioned for Jon to follow. The black walls were two hundred feet high, wide enough for six chariots to ride abreast. It added a sense of grandeur to Daelyx’s persona. Not that he needed it. “What motivates all men and women? What would they fight for above all else?”

_Freedom._ The thought was instant and lined with spite. Jon nearly voiced it but held his tongue. Not wanting to duel in circles, Jon took a moment to ponder the question. “Food, land and a safe place to raise their children.”

Daelyx nodded. “Security of its people is the first responsibility of the state. Another, is a vision for its future. The most successful states ensure that this vision is both hopeful and fruitful for its masses.”

Perhaps the words were bait, but Jon lunged at them all the same. “And what hope is there for a slave, if not freedom?”

“I was hoping you would say that. Perhaps, a demonstration is necessary.” Daelyx approached one of the guards manning the walls. The three green tiger stripes on his cheeks were stark reminders of the man’s position. The warrior bowed and placed a hand over his heart. Daelyx clasped his shoulder. “Rise. Grab fifty of your brothers and have them gather in the courtyard in front of the Temple of Syrax.”

The warrior nodded. “It will be done, Triarch.” He said before sprinting off to follow the command.

Equally suspicious and intrigued, Jon followed the direction of the Triarch. They descended from the high wall down one of the few great staircases built directly into backside of the wall. They passed a massive Ballista that could hurl steel spears as tall as Jon. He was reminded of Queen Rhaenys and her dragon's death in Dorne. _This would not even need to find an eye. It would pierce through_ _both Syraxes and_ _me._

The staircase was wide enough for four men to walk abreast. A patch layer of grounded stone resided on the step, adding additional grip. There was no railing and Jon could see an abyss over the edge. He and Daelyx descended side by side.

“What is this demonstration?” Jon asked. He eyed Daelyx, suddenly wary of his intentions. Mentally, he reached out to Syraxes and was pleased to see that she was close. His dragon had been in the habit of spending most of the night away from the city as she flew far from human settlements to hunt for her prey. Once she had not returned until late the next day, spending most of her time above the Dothraki sea.

“You believe that hope for a slave is either lost or entirely focused on the slave’s freedom, whether or not they will eventually achieve it. I admit freedom is a powerful feeling and a convincing illusion.” The Triarch responded.

“An illusion? Have you ever been shackled or had your face branded? I think those who have would disagree with you.”

Daelyx nodded. “I would not disagree. Some however find pride in their brandings, the Tiger Cloaks for example know their stripes showcase their ferocity and commitment. Few would trade their stripes away for freedom.”

“Forgive me if I remain doubtful.” Jon deadpanned.

The Triarch smiled. “It is true. We all shackle ourselves for the benefit of society. Every major advance in human history has required some sort of collaboration and the essence of collaboration is sacrifice. Time, effort and sometimes even one’s life. Civilization demands that we adhere to rules that limit or even work against our best interests for the benefit of society.”

“And how does this relate to slaves? Their reality is forced upon them. Some before they are even born." Jon retorted.

“My point is that even those who are considered free are willing to relinquish their freedom for intangible gains. The primes of order, progress and even advancement are powerful motivators.” Daelyx responded. They reached the bottom of the staircase and followed the two Tiger Cloaks who formed their escort.

Understanding the essence of the Triarch’s argument Jon asked, “And you mean to motivate your slaves? How?”

“As you have said, freedom is a powerful motivator but give a man too much, too soon and the taste of it sours quickly. Order and a regiment that men can respect with freedom being the ultimate goal is what galvanize the masses.” Daelyx appeared confident, assured in his reasoning. Jon though had his reservations.

“This sounds revolutionary and seeing as I have not heard these plans spoken of as of yet, I presume you have not made them public knowledge.”

Daelyx’s smile was rueful. “Your mind is quick, Jaehaerys. No, I have not yet. The Old Blood are not quick to new ideas, let alone radical ones. The Elephants and the Tigers are thought of as two different schools of thought. In truth, both suffer from the same archaic reasoning. They are terrified of losing their power or their privilege. While the Elephants seek to dominate by trade, and the Tigers by strength of arms, in truth both would simply repeat the mistakes of the past and hope for better results. That is why more than any other, they need a figure head to rally behind.”

“And that is you?” Jon asked.

The Triarch shook his head. “No, that is you. And your dragon.”  He held up his hand before Jon could reply. “Please allow for the demonstration before you give your reply.”

They reached the courtyard of the Temple of Syrax. The black monolith stretched above their heads, seemingly endless in the black night. Fifty tiger cloaks stood in five neat lines. Their armor shone in the light of the torches. Daelyx nodded to what must have been the commanding officer and at once the warriors struck the butt of their spears against the ground. Their feet stomped, and roar leapt from their mouths as their polished helms, fashioned like tiger masks, were pulled down to obscure their faces.

The commanding officer, apart from the group of fifty yelled to his warriors in High Valyrian, “WHO ARE WE?!”

“TIGERS!” They responded in unison. Suddenly the front line crouched, and spears jutted forward from those behind them.

“WHO ARE WE?!” The commanding officer yelled once again.

“TIGERS!” The warriors shouted once again. Their spears rose into the air and then twisted as the Tigers turned so that a different group stood at the front of the line. Their cries reverberated across the empty courtyard so that their voices sounded akin to hundreds of men instead of fifty.

“THEN SHOW ME!” The commander shouted. And then the warriors performed the most impressive display of choreography that Jon had ever seen. They threw their spears in the air, spinning them so that each spear landed in the hands of a different warrior. Not a single spear dropped to the ground. Their feet stamped on the ground as the group split into two. The two groups turned on one another, spears clashed as warriors danced with a ferocity that Jon almost mistook for real combat.

After a moment the warriors parted, sliding past one another so that those who were on the left were now on the right. In a single motion, the warriors formed a V formation. They stood shoulder to shoulder, two men deep with their backs straight, gazes pointed forward and their spears held high. Some breathed heavily from the exertion, but their faces were composed showing no emotion.

Daelyx clapped. “They never disappoint.” Jon watched as the Triarch approached the warriors. His voice carried across the courtyard. “Men, each of you have protected and served the Old Blood admirably. You all should be proud.” He walked to the warrior on the furthest right flank. Though he spoke to the man individually, Jon could hear his words without strain. “Does being a Tiger fill you with pride?”

“Yes, Triarch.” The warrior answered without hesitation.

“And if I offered you freedom, would you take it?” Daelyx asked.

Confusion was plain on the warrior’s face. “Triarch?” He questioned.

“That is what I am offering. Exchange your stripes for half your weight in gold and your freedom. Relinquish your armor and your spear. You will never be a Tiger again but you will have the _freedom_ to make your own choices.” Daelyx waited for the man to answer. When none came the Triarch spoke again, “You have a choice, soldier. Choose what you believe is best for yourself.”

The warrior shook his head and straightened. “Respectfully, I would refuse Triarch.”

Daelyx went to the next man over. “And you soldier? I would extend the same offer.”

The warrior refused. “Thank you Triarch but I would refuse as well.”

The Triarch approached five others who all politely refused, each taking less time than the last man. Then Daelyx addressed the entirety of the host, “I would extend the same offer to all of you. Your stripes for gold and freedom. Enough of it to begin a new life.  Skilled as you all are, even the Golden Company would be happy to have you.”

They waited in silence. Minutes passed and yet not one soldier stepped forward. Daelyx turned to Jon, there was a knowing smile on his face. The warriors were dismissed soon after.

“This proves nothing. Are the Tigers not indoctrinated from a young age? This life, is all they know.” Jon argued.

“Very true.” Daelyx answered. He sighed. “While there are Unsullied in their ranks, the Tigers’s training is not so brutal or as dehumanizing. Pride and purpose maintains their devotion to their posts. Their stripes are earned not forced upon them.”

“And you mean to do the same for your army of slaves?” Jon asked. _It would take years upon years to enforce such discipline._ “Did Volantis not fill their armies with slaves in the Century of Blood?  We know how well that worked.”

“Not to such a degree. The Tigers are special, elite even but lessons can be learned from their training to be applied to the more common man. Volantis failed in the past because they had forgotten the importance of aligning the masses to their cause. Slaves can make for poor soldiers if the blood they are expected to shed is for a cause that is meaningless to them.”  Daelyx answered. They stood alone now in the courtyard apart from the gargoyles.

Jon thought of Benerro then and how Daelyx had won favor with the High Priest to secure his election. “The Red Faith, how do they align with your vision?”

“What does religion bring more than anything else?” Daelyx asked. He did not wait for Jon to answer. “Hope. And hope is more powerful than gold to the downtrodden. With Benerro the masses will be mobilized, their future will be aligned with the future of Volantis. And with you, the Old Blood will be inspired. Join me.” He extended his hand.

Jon took a deep breath. “What do you hope to accomplish? All I hear is a prelude to war.”

A frown marred Daelyx’s features. His hand fell. “I once had a mentor, an old sellsword from across the Jade Sea. A man of immense intellect, he was full of proverbs. One such stuck with me, ‘In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.’ How can Essos be described if not chaotic? Pirates, bandits, Dothraki, traveling bands of slavers… there are whole portions of this land that remain inaccessible unless you travel with a small army. In the days of the Freehold, order dominated this continent. It was through the strength of the dragonlords that the masses prospered, and it can be through the strength of Volantis that civilization prospers once again.”

“Volantis is not Valyria.” Jon retorted.

“But it can be.” Daelyx answered quickly. “You are the last dragon rider, but I suspect soon you will not be. Valyrian blood is strongest here in Volantis behind these walls. The blood of the old sorcerer princes flows in my veins and my sisters.  Why not join our families? Your sons and daughters will be a new generation of dragonlords. And through them a new Freehold could be born. Naemella is not Elaerys but she can bear strong children.”

Jon grimaced. “Respectfully Triarch, I must refuse once again. My family lies across the Narrow Sea and my place remains with them.”

Daelyx’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Very well. I must ask if you will oppose us? Word of your dragon will soon spread and those who stand against us will certainly seek to entangle you in our conflict.”

Jon frowned. _What if I were to say yes? Would you try to stop me from leaving?_ “So long as these conflicts do not spill over into my father’s lands then I see no reason for my involvement. That you have my word.”

“Thank you, Prince Jaehaerys. I suggest you get some rest. Vyraxes’s ceremony is a long one.”

The Triarch spoke truly. Vyraxes’s ceremony was of excruciating length and complexity. The day was made worse by the absence of Meria. She did not appear in the morning before the ceremony, nor did he catch sight of her at the ceremony itself. Her absence was noted by Ser Jorah, “A woman spurned is a terrible thing. Be grateful that she has chosen silence rather than the alternative.” The Bear Knight’s words did not placate him.

_I did not mean to hurt her feelings._ When the next day passed without sight of Meria, Jon considered going to her family’s home but the constraints on his time were severe. Without Meria to manage, conversations lasted longer than Jon would have liked but he saw no polite way to disengage. The Old Blood seemed less content to allow him to slip away from the parties and Jon found himself in the center of attention.

By his last night in Volantis, Jon was grateful to soon be gone and then home. Syraxes was off hunting and had been gone for hours now. She had grown too large for her saddle and over a foot had been added to her wing span. A half moon was high in the sky and Jon laid in bed, wondering if he would slip into Ghost’s skin tonight. A knock on his door interrupted his musings.

“Prince Jaehaerys.” The servant bowed deeply.

“What is it?” Jon asked.

“You have a visitor. Lady Meria.”

Jon smiled, thanked the servant and followed him to the courtyard. He paused when he saw her.

Meria was dressed in bright scaled armor, gold and emerald with steel serpents across the pauldrons. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high tail and that familiar smile graced her lips as she regarded him. “Prince Jaehaerys. You are a bit under dressed. Though I cannot say I mind much.”

He looked down at his shirtless torso. All he wore were his sleeping pants. “Is there some battle I am unaware of?” Jon asked, amused.

“It is your last night. Did we not say we would spar?” She cocked her head to the side as if the answer was obvious.

“Here?” Jon asked, hating the way his voice squeaked.

“No. I do not want to die of a heat stroke. My family has a dojo beneath the earth where we can play. That is if you are up to the challenge.” She smirked.

Not tired in the slightest, Jon was eager for some excitement. “Very well. Let us dance. Forgive me if I am out of practice.”

“You will need your armor, I would not want to cut you.” She added, “ _Too badly._ ”

Meria helped him dress, taking the opportunity to brush her fingers across his skin as he slid the scaled plates over his tunic and breeches. This close to her, Jon could admire the expert craftmanship of her armor. “Your father must be very successful if he can afford to gift you with this.” The scale was painted steel with a thick padded underplate. Every time Meria moved the scale shimmered in the light but there was no rattle.

Meria stood behind him and helped tie on his thigh plate. “Oh, my father is very successful, but I paid for this armor myself. You would not believe how many men underestimate a woman’s skill with a spear. The length of it negates much of the advantage that a man’s strength gives. And I am very fast. There is nothing sweeter than standing over a man on his back.” She nipped at his ear. “All done.”

Heat bloomed on Jon’s face. He grabbed Judgement. “Distracting me will not help you.”

“It does not hurt to try.” Meria quipped.

They exited the manse moments later and the carriage shook beneath them as they traveled across the city.

“Where is Ser Jorah?” Meria asked.

Jon shrugged. “He is off for the night.” The replacement for the Bear Knight was a tall Summer Islander with thick, wool like hair done in braids. He had not offered a name and Jon had not pressed him for one. The guard sat in front with the carriage driver. Leaving himself and Meria alone. Jon took the chance to ask her, “Where have you been?”

She sighed. “At first I was angry with you and then I felt foolish.” She placed a hand over his own. “I wanted to say goodbye before you left. We are likely to never see each other again.”

Jon squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I enjoyed my time here because of you. These last days here were the worse.”

 “I cannot say that I am surprised.” said Meria.

The guards at the entrance of her family’s manse waved them through. When they stopped Meria turned to him. “Will you tell your family that you lost to a girl?”

“If it does happen, however unlikely, I will.” Jon said as they stepped from the carriage. Their footsteps echoed on the stone. Meria led him away from the main structure of the manse to a smaller stone building with a dark wooden door. Beyond the door was a twisting staircase that descended into darkness.

“To escape the heat, the dojo lies deep underground. East Volantis has a sewage system that deposits waste beneath the river. There are several air shafts for workers and the dojo uses these.” Meria explained.

“So, the dojo will smell like sewage?” Jon asked, unable to hide his distaste.

Meria laughed. “No, the air shafts deliver fresh air for the workers. They are separate from the sewage tunnels. There is no smell, I promise you.”

Jon nodded, trusting her word. Meria grabbed a lit torch from the scone near the doorway and they descended into the darkness.

“You are not scared of the dark, are you?” Meria questioned.

Jon laughed at the absurdity. “No, I am not.”

“Some find being underground unnatural. I hope the discomfort does not impede your swordplay.”

Jon shook his head. “My mother’s family… the Starks have crypts beneath Winterfell that are older than the castle itself. I used to play in them as a child.”

The stairway ended in a long hallway just wide enough for him and Meria to walk shoulder to shoulder. There was a light at the end of it and the sound of rushing water.

“The Rhoyne travels underground as well. The trick of the sewage builders was to design the system so that it did not poison the city’s water source.”

Jon nodded. That was something he had learned during his first stay in Volantis. Tyrion had a queer fascination with Volantis’s sewage system. “It leaked three times and poisoned thousands.” He said.

They reached the end of the hallway and Jon’s breath hitched as he regarded the training room. The main floor was a dais suspended above a fierce current of black, swiftly moving water. The half of the room that was closes to them was illuminated but the furthest half was cloaked in darkness. Beyond the training ring were stone seats. The top most Jon could not see.

He stepped past the doorway onto the walkway and on instinct dove forward. There was a great crash behind him. Jon turned in shock to see a cage of bronze surround the dais, blocking the doorway. Meria looked mournful behind them.

“I am sorry.” She whispered. There were tears in her eyes.

Jon gripped the bars and flinched away at the sudden heat. White runes glowed where his hands had been.

“He took my brother.” She spoke once again.

“You are making a mistake.” Jon growled. Judgement pulsed.

“ _Not as big as yours_ _, I’m afraid.”_ A deep voice echoed across the stone walls. They sent a chill down his spine.

Jon whirled, facing the figure that emerged from the darkness. The man was clad head to toe in black armor. Solid black steel with an underlying layer of black ringmail that protected the gaps between the plate. His helm was fashioned into the shape of a snarling cobra. It was dark enough in the chamber that his eye sockets were shrouded in blackness as well, but Jon recognized the voice. “Maelyx.” Jon said.

“ _Jaehaerys. You are not surprised to see me.”_ Maelyx’s deformity made all his words slur.

Jon drew Judgement. In Maelyx’s hand was a bladed staff. Over six feet long the staff was taller than Jon and near as tall as Maelyx. “I wondered when you would show. Put down your staff, Maelyx. I have no wish to kill Elaerys’s brother.”

Maelyx chuckled, the laugh sounded wet coming from his helm. He twirled his staff instead. “ _Confident_ _, you are. Elaerys did love that about you. Your pretty hair, your eyes and that face of yours. I wonder if she would love it when I am through with you.”_

“You would violate Guest Right?” Jon asked. He had no wish to fight Maelyx, but he would, to the death if need be.

“ _YOU STOLE MY SISTER!”_ Maelyx roared. “ _Guest Right means nothing to me.”_

“You are a fool if you still believe that. Elaerys chose to leave with me.” Jon answered. They circled around each other. Meria was gone when Jon looked back to the entrance.

_“And yet she did not return with you. Did you forget your responsibility to keep her safe? She is dead because of you!”_

“I avenged her death. Did you not hear? A Khal and his bloodriders lie in the ground and another Khalasar has been broken. That was me.” Jon reached out for Syraxes. His dragon could not reach him here, but he would need her to leave the city. A white-hot agony pierced his mind when he tried calling to her and the runes on the bronze cage glowed in answer.

“Your beast will not save you. You are not the only one with magic.” There was a hiss in the air and Jon raised Judgement in time to block Maelyx’s stab. They twisted away from each other. “Rightfully, they are dead but the one who placed her on the path to death remains breathing. I seek to change that.”

Jon grimaced when Maelyx struck once again, he turned the blade away from him with Judgement. _He’s strong._ Jon realized. He switched to a two-handed grip.

The scream of two blades meeting resounded in the chamber. And they danced until Jon’s heart hammered in his chest. Maelyx’s staff’s length and his height gave him a reach advantage that Jon struggled to circumvent. The blade was frequently aimed at his face and Jon was forced backward. Once Judgement struck the Bronze bars and there was a shower of sparks in answer.

Over and over again they clashed until the first blood was spilled.

Maelyx’s laughter greeted Jon’s ear. “I should bleed you slowly.”

Jon did not spare a glance at his arm. His grip was unaffected. “Hard to do when you are dead!” He crossed the distance between him and Maelyx. Driving the bigger man backwards. Maelyx’s pauldron dropped to the floor, a second later.

Maelyx ducked under the next swipe and a shower of sparks briefly lit the chamber. Jon lunged, wincing as the tip of Maelyx’s staff bit into his side, blinded by the sparks Maelyx was helpless as Judgement sheared through his helmet and buried into his eye. 

This time Jon’s laugh echoed throughout the chamber as he kicked the man to the floor. Maelyx rolled, groaning.

“ _My eye.”_ Maelyx cried.

_Kill him._ The Voice demanded. “Submit.” Jon said instead.

“ _My eye.”_ Maelyx repeated. He was crawling across the floor. Jon kicked his side, turning the armored man onto his back.

Before he could bring his sword to Maelyx’s neck, there was a groan of a chain moving and then the bronze cage began to lift.

Jon turned, staring out into the shadows. “I will kill him!” He threatened.

There was no response and he could see no movement in the blackness. He heard something small hit the dais and a second later black smoke flooded from the floor. Another clang and more black smoke. Jon rose his blade with one hand and covered his mouth and nose with another.

A shape moved in the rising smoke and Jon turned to face it. Another shape moved in his peripheral and Jon widened his stance, prepared to cut through two men or more if needed. Too late, he felt hands move across his body. Their touch was a caress before claws replaced blunt fingers, driving deep into his muscles. The ability to scream left him and he collapsed to his knees. Judgement clanged heavily besides him.

The smoke cleared, and twelve figures were suddenly there. They wore lacquered masks and dark robes that hid the entirety of their form. _Shadowbinders._ Jon realized.

One helped Maelyx to his feet.

“You took my sister from me.” Maelyx rasped. His right eye was filled with malice, the other was a bloody ruin from where Jon had plunged Judgement into his socket.

Jon would have answered, perhaps with a gloat, but the magic of Maelyx’s shadowbinders held his body in place. All he could do was move his eyes and glare. He was kneeling before Maelyx, arms spread, and body anchored by clawed shadows.

“I should take your eye!” Maelyx screamed pulling a dagger from his belt. The Shadowbinder grabbed him before he could lunge.

“ _Maelyx.”_ One of the warlocks hissed. “We need his eyes. We need him whole. We need his blood.”

Maelyx shrugged away from the warlock’s touch. “Do not touch me!”

“ _His eyes are pathways to his power. Start we must before his dragons returns. Draws power from her that he does.”_ Another Shadowbinder whispered.

Maelyx did not protest and a tall Shadowbinder knelt before Jon. He tried twisting away but his body did not listen. This close and Jon could see wrinkled grey flesh surrounding blood red eyes.

The Shadowbinder had long, spindly fingers, six of them Jon realized. They gripped his skull, holding his head in place so that Jon was forced to stare into a red abyss.

If he could have screamed, he would have as a white-hot pain flashed behind his eyes as if a nail was being hammered into his skull.

_“He has two beasts! A wolf as well!”_ There was queer excitement in the Shadowbinder’s voice.

“ _Bonded to them both is he?”_ Another asked.

Another stepped forward and dipped its hand into the wound along Jon’s side. A long grey tongue emerged to taste the blood. “ _Power in this one’s blood. Proceed slowly we must. The wolf first before the dragon.”_

Maelyx smiled. “How many sisters do you have? Soon you will have one less. A sister for a sister, and I will make you watch as your beast tears her apart.”

Jon struggled against his restraints but to not avail. He could not shake his head or even clench his teeth, and it took all his strength to breathe. A fog covered his mind and Jon could not even feel Syraxes. Fear crept through him.

“And when that is done, I will make you watch as I take your dragon.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait for this chapter. I know two months is a long while. This was by far the most difficult chapter to write of any of my stories. Lots of dialogue, world-building etc. This chapter may seem long but I also cut out a lot of what I was originally planning to do so believe it or not this is the streamlined version. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated. Thank you all for your support.


	12. The Pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait. I've been suffering from major writer's block and real life has been enormously busy. Rather than make you all wait another month, I split this chapter in half while I struggle through completing the second half. 
> 
> Special thanks to Got88 who has been the best proofreader and idea guy that one could ask for.

**Daenerys Targaryen**

 

The heat of the day paired with all the riding, lifting, walking, haggling and deliberating that she had done for the past several hours had nearly sapped all of her strength. She sucked greedily at her waterskin and part of her wished it was wine. An ease of the nerves running through her would be welcome. After consulting with Tyrion at the Dragonpit, Daenerys saw to housing of the various factions that had followed the Lannisters to King’s Landing.

Her day had been filled with resolving petty disputes, reassuring and even bribing innkeepers to house the strange visitors from Essos. Permanent housing around the Dragonpit had yet to be built and construction would not start for some time. As such, the ‘visitors’ (and she used the term loosely for most of them seemed set on residing within Westeros for the foreseeable future), were settled throughout the city. Many had already been found suitable housing but at the start of her day, some had been sleeping in tents while others had taken shelter among the abundant abandoned buildings immediately surrounding the Dragonpit.

Daenerys had seen to it that all of the visitors from Essos had been properly housed with reasonable accommodations. Doing so had been a delightful challenge. Some spoke the common tongue, but others spoke varying dialects of Valyrian that challenged her vocabulary. High Valyrian was nearly as different from its many bastard dialects as the common tongue was from the Old Tongue.

Viserys had long ago begged off to go check on his daughters. While her brother provided interesting conversation, he was of little practical use and was often more of a hinderance than a help. She knew Viserys was anxious to find some position of import in the court as his return from Volantis to Westeros had been over nine moons ago, but Daenerys hoped Rhaegar would not give Viserys any position that required any prolonged collaboration between them. Her brother’s impatience and general superiority complex made him only tolerable in small doses.

She laid her scroll with its list of names and locations down on the oaken table. Her records were organized in three neat rows: the name of the Essosi, the name of the inn which they were housed, and finally a unique detail of the person that would spark her memory at a later date. The latter columns she had already filled in. The woman she had just helped settle was a matriarch from a far-off village located deep within the Dothraki Sea. Old, squat and heavy set but with kind eyes, the defining characteristic of the lady was that she had brought two daughters who had eight young children between them. _Grandmother to many_ was what she wrote in the last column and _Sailor’s Whore_ was her scribble in the middle column. Despite its name, the inn was a modest and clean establishment situated near Fishmonger’s Square. The air had a heavy smell of fish and salt but the room of the Matriarch, her daughters and grandchildren had a balcony that overlooked a side street. A hundred yards west and around a building and then the port and the Blackwater Bay would come into view. Those inns were substantially more expensive, and part of her task was spending as little of the Crown’s coin as was possible.

Daenerys smiled politely as the boys ran to inspect their new room. There were three of them, the eldest she guessed was eight or nine while the youngest was just learning his steps. Curiosity gripped them, and they opened every cupboard, inspected every corner and even lifted the straw mattresses to check beneath. The girls were more cautious and stuck close to their mothers, peering at their surroundings with eyes both suspicious and filled with careful wonder. 

The Matriarch was the last to enter the room. Despite her size, she moved without the aid of daughters and even swatted one away when they tried aiding her up the steps. She wore a heavy, patterned drab that hung loosely on her shoulders and ended near her feet clad in sandals made of woven grass.

Daenerys watched the woman file into the room and resisted the urge to sneeze. These Lhazareen women had a spicy scent that was so strong that with these closed quarters, her eyes watered.

The woman glanced around the room. It was not much, four beds stacked on top of one another two by two, a square dining table which Daenerys was leaning against and a separate closet for the privy. She had ordered another straw mattress to be brought up, but the family would need to share their beds regardless.

A wide smile broke out on the Matriarch’s face and it was reflected in the faces of her daughters. They bowed deeply to Daenerys, one of the little girls went as far as to kiss her hand. A quick yell in their intelligible tongue and the inquisitive boys were bowing for her as well. When she smiled back, a fierce grin appeared on the oldest boy’s face and his younger brother hit him in the side.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The Matriarch said. She was the only one of her family who spoke the common tongue, with a thick and heavily accented voice. Her plump, rough hands clasped Daenerys’s hand and the woman continued bowing as she spoke.

“Your welcome…” Daenerys faltered as her memory of the woman’s name failed her. She had tried memorizing all the names and faces of the Essosi but she had helped so many and the day had been so long that their exotic and somewhat nonsensical names had become an incoherent mess inside her head.

“Mirri Maz Duur, Your Grace. Mirri, if you will.” Her smile was gentle.

Daenerys smiled apologetically. “I know this is not much space, but additional rooms should become available after the Tourney concludes.”

Mirri waved her hand dismissively. “Bah, this is more than enough space. We are little people.” And then she laughed. “Well, except for me. Our home in our village was smaller than this and this wood floor looks far more comfortable than the dirt.”

“Why did you travel so far to Westeros?” Daenerys asked. Most of these travelers were from Braavos, a city with one of the world’s largest ports and a thousand different gods, people and cultures all coexisting within. With the exception of the stonesingers from Elyria, Mirri and her family were from the furthest east than any of the other Essosi.

“It is quite the long tale. Do you have time?” Mirri asked.

Before Daenerys could reply, her stomach rumbled announcing her hunger. She had broken her fast early in the morn before traveling to the pit but had forgotten to eat since then. A glance towards the open doors leading to the small balcony revealed it was still daylight but the shadows were growing long. Summer days had long hours of daylight, but dusk was upon them. _It must be near twelve hours since I have eaten._ Now food was all that she could think about. “Another time?” Daenerys asked.

Mirri nodded and with a final goodbye to the children, Daenerys exited the room. Ser Barristan was at the foot of the stairs down the long hallway. The inn was nearly full with patrons and they stared in wonder at the white armored Kingsguard and the three Gold Cloaks who added to her escort. She waved at the cries of ‘Silver Princess’ but was far too drained to stop and interact with anyone.

“Finally done for the day, Princess?” The Old Knight asked her. He was a tall man, unbowed by time with the vitality of a man half his age. His blue eyes watched her, and his concern was plain. The oldest of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan was somewhat a father figure to all within their family, even her Kingly brother.

Daenerys nodded. “I can barely stand. I do not know how I will mount my horse.” She joked. Ser Barristan frowned and was about to speak before a commotion on the street drew their attention. A long cloud of dust rose between the buildings and shouts were heard as peasants dove to the side of the road so as not to be trampled.

By instinct Ser Barristan stepped in front of her and the Gold Cloaks moved to her sides.  She peered around the Knight. Black chainmail and crimson cloaks marked the approaching riders as the Red Guard. There were over a dozen of them. The lead soldier pulled up his face mask and his expression looked stressed.

“Your Grace! Thank the Seven.” Ser Addam Marbrand shouted. Sweat ran down in heavy drops and strands of his copper hair clung wetly to the frame of his face.

“Ser, what has happened?” Ser Barristan questioned. The Red Guard relaxed their stance but the Kingsguard remained taut.

A look of horror passed across Ser Addam’s face. The sight disquieted Daenerys, he was a daring man, full of charm and bravado to see him so upset…

“The wolf… the Prince's direwolf went mad. Killed and maimed over a dozen men and the panic injured even more.” Ser Addam answered.

Dread set in her heart. “Ghost wouldn’t…” She protested.

“Who are the casualties?” Ser Barristan demanded. She knew that he was focused on his immediate duty of protecting her family, but she feared the answer to the question.

“I do not have any answers. The King sent us to fetch the princess and bring her back to Maegor’s Holdfast with the rest of the royal family. We did not know where you were… we feared the wolf had come to hunt Princess Daenerys.” Ser Addam replied.

Daenerys rolled his words in her head and her thoughts were sent into turmoil. _Jon had always said that Ghost was more dangerous than any knight, even Ser Arthur but… wait come to_ _hunt me?_ “Why would Ghost come after me?” She asked the Red Guard.

He grimaced. “Ser Oswell stopped the wolf’s attack on Princess Visenya. When the beast fled through the gates back to the city, we feared that you were the next target.”

Bile rose within her throat. “Visenya?” She asked in disbelief. “Is she harmed?”

When the knight gave no answer, Daenerys nearly collapsed. Ser Barristan steadied her. “Princess, we must return to the castle, they will have answers for you there. Can you ride?” She nodded. Already the guardsmen had gathered her silver and Ser Barristan’s black horse. The alleyway that the entranceway of the inn laid on was deserted save for them, but inquisitive souls peaked from the windows above.

Ser Barristan boosted her onto her horse and then he mounted his own with a single jump. A signal from the old Knight and the guardsmen formed a tight formation around them. Barristan rode next to her, his head swiveling to check for the sight of white fur and blood red eyes. They rode up the winding road of the Hook towards Aegon’s Hill. The Red Keep loomed ahead, blood red against a darkening sky of orange and crimson. The moon was faintly visible through the wispy clouds.

She clutched the reins tightly but the beat of the hooves against the cobblestone sent her mind back to racing with thoughts. Ghost had arrived with his master when Jon had returned from the North after his years long absence. Back then the wolf had only been the size of a medium dog, though with a wide head and big paws that suggested he would grow far larger. She remembered the first sight of him and how he had leapt from his ship as if it were on fire. _Ghost is a part of me._ Jon had told her with pride in his voice. _I think there is a wolfish look about you now._ She had answered.

_Ghost is a part of me._ The words rang in her head. _Ghost is a part of me._ Her worry increased. _What is happening to you_ _, Jon?_ She knew that Jon had some measure of control over his wolf. His training with Queen Lyanna’s childhood old friend Howland Reed in the Neck was akin to the old tales from the Age of Heroes. A castle that moved, made of wood and moss instead of stone and manned by men as short as children. Jon said Lord Reed had trained with the Greenseers on the Isle of Faces and the lord’s ancient teachings had opened his third-eye. ' _Warg_ _'_ her mind whispered. Belief in the Seven had never taken root within heart but she said a prayer for her family regardless.

A guard atop the barbican shouted as he caught sight of their group. There was a great groan as the iron gates of the Red Keep were opened. Beyond the portcullis, the outer yard was completely empty. An ominous sign that she knew for the feast celebrating the arrival of the Dornish procession was meant to have begun. Daenerys did not have time to ponder any further as Ser Barristan quickly dismounted, not bothering to wait for a stable boy to take his horse. She followed. Behind her, the gates slammed shut and were barred after. Her escort formed a tight fist of steel and her vision was narrowed to the gaps between their black and red armor.

The beat of their boots against the stone and dirt seemed deafening against the silence until they reached the inner courtyard and there she heard the wails and screams. Her guards pressed in tighter and Ser Barristan slipped a hand around her arm while the other rested on the hilt of his sword. Through the gaps in the steel she could see children crying, mother’s embracing their daughters, ladies with fine dresses torn or ripped with dirt splattered against brightly colored garments. The lords and their sons looked nervous or angry. She spied dry patches of blood and thought she saw a severed finger, but Barristan’s gentle tug had her moving on before she could verify.

Perhaps it was a blessing that she could not see nor have time to stop and meet their faces. She was a princess of royal blood, meant to project strength and offer safety in these times of need. To assuage the fears of the distressed. And yet, what could she tell them when she herself did not know what to make of the situation? Her only thought was of her family. _They cannot be dead. We have the Kingsguard, the finest knights in the realm._ Ghost’s pristine white fur and blood red eyes flashed in her mind. She remembered all the sinewy muscle beneath the fur and his long, sharp teeth. _Lord Stark says direwolves can tear a man’s arm off as easy as a man would_ _tear a fly’s wings. We had to promise to train them to keep them, but Ghost has always had the best temperament._ Jon had written to Visenya on the day that the wolves had been found, Visenya shared the news with her.  _Ghost is a part of me. Did you do this_ _, Jon?_

There were guards at the head of the serpentine steps. Their halberds were brandished, castle forged steel shone with the promise of a threat. “What are these people doing in the courtyard?” Ser Barristan demanded.

“The King ordered the inner courtyard cleared and the main gate to remain barred until the direwolf is caught. Most of these here are waiting for the Silent Sisters to come to deal with the dead below.” The guard to her immediate right answered.

She found her voice. “How bad is it?” _Is my Visenya amongst the dead?_ She feared the answer too much to ask. _My family…_

The guard looked her way and shook his head. “Best see for yourself, Your Grace.”

Barristan ordered their escort to stay behind and enforce order, then he escorted her down the steps. Along the stairway, she could see bloodstains. There had been an attempt to clean or clear the stairwell but the patches where blood had spilled were evident, dark against the grey stone. Dread filled her heart.

The inner courtyard was much, much worse. White sheets had been placed over where the dead laid. Their stains hinted at the horror they hid. She counted over a dozen of them. Strewn along the grounds. The drawbridge spanning the moat between Maegor’s holdfast and the inner courtyard was up. Ser Walder Snow stood at its far end, a massive pillar of strength in his white cloak and enameled white armor. His Valyrian steel greatsword, Jon’s gift to each of the Kingsguard, was bared and rested point first into the ground. The knight signaled, and the drawbridge was lowered.

As they crossed the dry moat, a flash of color caught her eye. She turned and nearly vomited at the sight. A kitchen maid and by the looks, a young boy of noble birth were impaled in the moat below. The boy's head looked cracked like an egg from the fall and the maid was facing downwards, near split in half from the force of hitting the spike.  Daenerys did not resist when Ser Barristan turned her away from the carnage.

“A panic took the yard during the attack and those two fell from the drawbridge.” Ser Walder explained in his baritone voice. He looked sad as well. “Come Princess, your family will be relieved that you are safe.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Do not worry, they are all safe as well.”

They passed beyond the thick twelve-foot-high walls surrounding the square fortress. Ser Walder continued to speak as they traveled through the halls. “There are several who have sought refuge in the inner castle and they are gathered in the Queen’s Ballroom. The royal family is gathered in the King’s solar.”

“One beast could cause all this trouble.” Ser Barristan said in disbelief.

Ser Walder smiled gravely. “Old Nan used to tell of packs led by direwolves in the hundreds, as formidable as any army of men with the direwolves as their field commanders. Ghost is of a different breed than any common beast.”

“Where is he now?” She asked the massive knight.

“Escaped through a postern gate. A sand snake tried to impale him, and the wolf ripped her arm off and then killed the guard before the gate could be lowered.” Ser Walder answered.

“Obara.” Daenerys knew at once. _Only she would be so foolish to challenge Ghost._ “Ghost is not dead then?”

“Ser Oswell put a spear into him before he could reach Princess Visenya and another claims he hit Ghost in the flank with a crossbow bolt. There are those who claim that he’s escaped to the Kingswood.”

Despite the carnage that she had just witnessed, Daenerys felt relief. Ghost was as much as her family as his master.

Barristan words cooled her before she could celebrate. “Grievous wounds for sure. The wolf is likely to bleed out.”

 She could hear an argument on their approach to the solar. When Ser Barristan knocked and then opened the door, the sound of raised voices stopped. Her mother was the first to embrace her, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“Daenerys.” Her mother cried.

“I’m fine, mama.” Daenerys said but returned the embrace with equal zeal. It took several moments for her mother to release her and when she did, her eyes carefully scanned Daenerys’s form for any scrapes or bruises.

Satisfied that there were none, Rhaella asked, “Where were you, Daenerys? We have been waiting here for over an hour.”

Daenerys smiled sheepishly. “I was helping the last of our visitors find housing accommodations.” A deep frown took her mother’s face. Her mother was the wariest of the changes that were brought to the city and especially of their magically inclined visitors. Daenerys knew that her mother’s reservations were not without cause, she was amongst the only survivors of the Tragedy at Summerhall and that had been an event with the same intentions as Jon had now, to bring dragons back to the world. She had to beg her mother not go to Rhaegar and ask to reassign the duty to someone else. “I was not in any danger, Ser Barristan was with me at all times.”

Before her mother could reply, Rhaenys pulled Daenerys into an embrace. Rhae was tall enough that Daenerys’s head buried into her neck. Her niece squeezed her tightly before releasing her. Rhaenys’s violet eyes looked distressed, but she smiled warmly. “We were beginning to fear the worst.”

Aegon greeted her but he did not rise. The anger on his face was plain and in sharp contrast to the frequent smile that adorned his handsome face. His hair hung loosely about his tensed shoulders. He was seated though he looked ready to leap to his feet at a moment's notice. She wanted to ask him what his issue was but then she caught sight of Visenya.

Her dress, a pretty blue one that she was fond of, was ripped about the knee and there were tears along the sides. Dirt and blood ruined the fabric. Only a small scrape marred her face and her lip looked swollen. Most concerning though were the tears brimming in her eyes.

Daenerys rushed to her. “I am fine, Dany.” Visenya protested but she looked anyway.

Ten fingers? Yes. Both arms and legs? Ten toes? Visenya wiggled her bare feet, yes. The scrape on her knee looked minor and the blood did not seem to be hers. Ghost could not have touched her. Daenerys gently touched Visenya’s swollen lip, there was already salve at the corner and on the cut of her cheek. This close and she could smell the strong odor. Satisfied, Daenerys asked, “What happened?”

“It wasn’t Ghost’s or Jon’s fault. I saw it, but only mother believes me. Jon did not want to, he was crying.” Visenya pleaded. She clutched Daenerys’s hand tightly. Lyanna stood close and laid a comforting hand on her daughter’s shoulder. The queen looked a wreck, streaks left from the salt of tears were on her cheeks and her face looked grave. The Queen sat next to her daughter then.

They were all there, Daenerys’s family. Viserys sat on the far side of the room, on a couch with his three daughters. The twins leaned against their father while he held the slumbering youngest in his arms. Her mother returned to her seat next to Viserys and pulled Shaena into her lap. Rhaenys was at her perpetual place nearest Aegon’s side. Her niece had a hand on Aegon’s thigh. While she, Visenya and Lyanna sat to their immediate right. Around the room, all seven of the Kingsguard stood vigil. Ser Oswell’s right hand was missing its gauntlet, replaced by stained wrappings but the knight still looked strong and able to do all that he was required to do. Apart from the Kingsguard, the only men not of their family present in the room were Lord Jon Connington and Grand Maester Marwyn. Connington had a fierce expression and Marwyn looked deep in thought, as if he was pondering the world’s greatest mysteries. Daenerys realized that she had interrupted a standoff.

Rhaegar and Aegon were on opposite sides of the room, her brother stood while her nephew sat. Near mirror images they were. Undeniably father and son with even similar garbs of black and red. Even without words, the conflict between them was evident. Aegon’s anger was plain, a burning fire waiting to be unleashed. Rhaegar had years to master his and even then, her brother was never prone to outbursts, there was a sharp look in his eye though that warned Daenerys of the ferocity of the words she had missed.

“What does she mean?” Daenerys asked the room.

“Father forgot to share important details with you, with all of you, except for Lyanna of course, despite my advice otherwise.” Aegon said cryptically.

She looked around the room and then to Rhaegar for answers. By the expressions she saw, she was now the only one in the dark. Visenya hugged her tightly.

“Samwell has made father believe that Jon is going mad. The way of our grandfather.” Rhaenys answered.

Before Daenerys could digest the words, Aegon spoke. “It has been too long that our brother has been gone. Regardless of his mental state, we should bring him home. Call the banners, father.”

“We do not know for certainty where Jon is. Calling the banners does little.” Rhaegar said dismissively.

“Little is better than nothing! A show of force and a promise to bring war if he is not released.” Aegon answered.

“And do you know what enemy we would be fighting, Aegon? A man who does not know his enemy is little better than a man who does not know himself. Calling the banners only raises a panic and questions that we have no answers to. We need more information unless we intend to act blindly.” 

“What more do we need? Ser Jaime says Jon was headed for Volantis, the Triarchy has been infected with Jon’s dead paramour’s brother and your own daughter has said that Jon is being tortured as we speak. This inaction only costs us time.” Aegon challenged.

“I do not doubt my daughter nor my son!” Rhaegar’s voice rose. “Have you not mastered the importance of reading beyond the obvious and paying attention to the details? If not, then I have failed you in your preparation to be king. We have no idea if Jon is still in Volantis, and even if he is, is it the state that holds him? A group that is acting on behalf of this new Triarch or some rogue faction? These are the questions that must be answered before we can bring fire and blood!”

Daenerys flinched in response to Rhaegar’s anger. Aegon hardly looked chastened. 

“Then by your leave, I volunteer to go to Volantis and bring Jon home.”

“No.” Rhaegar responded. “You are the Crown Prince, my heir and your place is here.”

Aegon exploded. If it were not for Rhaenys still sitting, then the couch where she and Aegon were resting would have likely turned over by Aegon’s abrupt rise to his feet. “Do you think I will sit idly by while my brother is being tortured? I am not you, father.” A hush fell over the room. Fortunately, a table separated father and son though both looked willing to leap over it. Even the Kingsguard tensed.

“And Jon is not his grandfather, this will not be his Duskendale.” Rhaegar said coldly. “Your heroics would do little but put both my sons in danger. A prince leads in times of strife and a leader must know when there are men better suited to the task at hand.”

“Is that what you did when grandfather was captured? Lead?” Aegon said with a scoff, he continued. “From the safety of King’s Landing, all the while your father was tortured, and the Hand of the King forced a zero-sum game that would have led to your father’s death? Only Ser Barristan showed true steel and look where it left our family.”

“You are out of line boy.” Her mother spoke then. A fury was on her face.

Rhaegar stared at his son in silence. Neither were willing to break their standoff. “You may not agree with my methods, but you will listen and if you continue to act like a child then I will treat you like one. And if you ever bring up my father again, by the Seven, I swear that I will break your jaw. Sit down and be silent.”

Aegon did not sit, nor was he silent. “Grandmother, are you aware that father intends to wed Jon to Visenya and I to Rhaenys? Do you not see how delaying a rescue effort, in favor of what, fear of creating an international incident could cause future harm? Calling the banners sends a message that is impossible to ignore. Release Jon or be destroyed.”

“What?” Daenerys asked. This was certainly news to her and the way Visenya seemed to shrink indicated that it was news to her as well. She had thought that perhaps her brother would still seek to honor Jon’s betrothal to Myrcella. Tyrion’s conversation at the Dragonpit indicated the Lannister’s still thought that to be a possibility as well. The Dwarf had warned her of his father’s relentless pursuit of a royal marriage.

Her mother spoke before Daenerys’s question could be answered. “You would break your word to Tywin Lannister? Are you blind or a fool? What does a marriage between siblings bring our family?”

“I have not broken my word.” Rhaegar answered. “Jon will marry Visenya and Myrcella, Tywin Lannister is in agreement and the High Septon will not raise an issue.”

It seemed that they were all speaking at once after that. Lyanna yelled at her husband with a righteous fury. Apparently, the Queen was aware of her daughter’s part in the marriage but not that she would have to share Jon with Myrcella. Rhaella criticized Rhaegar for not discussing the matter with the rest of the family and that he had the gall to pursue both an incestuous and polyamorous marriage in a single instance. Rhaenys called for calm, Viserys had a small smile on his face in the midst of the chaos. That is until his youngest began to cry as their voices rose in volume and then he added his voice to Rhaenys.

Daenerys spoke the words, “You should have told me.” The fact that she had been omitted from the loop of information was the most distressing fact of all. Ever since her return from Dorne, for months her brother had entrusted her with tasks of increasing responsibility and complexity. She had thought that she had won her brother’s confidence and had access to his inner council. Visenya did not want to look at her, in fear or shame, Daenerys could not say.

Rhaegar bore the brunt of the criticism until the tide became too much and then he roared, “ENOUGH! Arguing now does nothing for us.” The yelling ceased but the looks of scorn did not. If looks could kill then Rhaegar would have been dead, twice over. He wheeled on Aegon. “I am disappointed in you.” Her brother turned to the Kingsguard. “The Prince is tired. Ser Loras see to it that my son finds his room safely and remains there for the rest of the night.” Aegon looked ready to protest but Rhaenys’s hand on his shoulder seemed to bring him to reason. Her nephew left the room in a fury, Ser Loras followed.

With Aegon gone, Rhaegar collapsed on his seat. His fingers rubbed wearily at his temples. Silver blonde hair hung loose from his braid. “You all may have reservations regarding my plans but I ask that you withhold voicing them until a time that is more appropriate. Our family must be both united and strong to deal with the challenges ahead.” He took a deep breath. “Make no mistake, this attack will have consequences.”

Her mother spoke then. “The wolf will have to be killed, Rhaegar. He is a danger to our family and to those around us.”

Rhaegar grimaced but it was Visenya who protested. “Not Ghost!” She exclaimed and then suddenly she was standing. “He didn’t mean it, father! Neither did Jon. _They_ made him do it.”

Rhaella spoke softly, “Sweetling, those people will not care if Ghost was in control or not. To them, he is a dangerous beast turned rabid. It is bad enough that Ghost had the run of the castle and worse that the attack happened when so many Lords and Ladies were in the Red Keep.”

Visenya did not seem to care about the Lords, Ladies and the dead outside these walls. “Please father, do not punish Ghost for something that he did not mean to do.”

“And do you think Lord Redwyne will be satisfied that Ghost did not mean to kill his twin sons or Prince Oberyn and Dorne will be placated by the fact that Ghost was not in control when his daughter was maimed? We maintain our power through reputation with our Lords and this attack has robbed some of them of their family. If this were some assassin or group of them due to the level of devastation, then their heads would roll without question. To do nothing would be a grave insult that would be seen as minimizing their loss.” Rhaella answered.

Visenya quieted but the look on her face made it clear that she did not accept the reasoning.

“How many are dead?” Daenerys asked.

Rhaenys answered, she looked as weary as Rhaegar. “Fourteen confirmed dead, though there are several more being tended by the Maesters. Four landed knights from the Reach, three men from the kitchen staff, the gate guard, Ser Guyel Lorch of the Westerlands, the serving girl and the boy in the moat, Ser Hobber and Ser Horras of House Redwyne and it remains to be seen if Obara will pull through.”

Daenerys bit her lip in worry. As callous as it sounded, if Ghost had killed only landed knights and serving staff then her brother could refuse to execute Ghost without a significant protest. Ser Guyel Lorch was sworn to House Lannister but their house was neither powerful nor well connected. Rhaenys listed the other landed knights, they were of houses Graen, Troter, Rollingford and Mollen. She was less familiar with those houses and could recall none of their banners but the fact that their names did not stir some memory was a testament to their minor nature. However, Ser Horras and his twin Ser Hobbar were the heir and spare of House Redwyne, a house that was amongst Highgarden’s most powerful bannermen and the twins were nephews of Lord Mace Tyrell. Obara was even more troubling. Daemon had told her that Oberyn loved his girls as much as he would if they were trueborn and Obara was his eldest. _They will call for blood._

“What I wish to know is _how_ and why?” Lyanna asked. Her inquiry was directed to the Grand Maester. “Howland said that Jon and his cousins are powerful wargs and skinchangers. Few if any could overcome him, perhaps in the North, beyond the wall. But in Essos, while Ghost is in Westeros?”

“A good question.” Marwyn shifted in his seat. He was not a handsome man. His nose was crooked from many breaks, white hair came out of his nose and ears and thinning grey hair hung limply from his head. He wore the customary grey robe of the Maesters with a large chain of several different metal links that showcased his mastery. His rod of Valyrian steel rested close to him. “An even better one is how Visenya was able to view our Prince from so far away. A warg she is not and yet she was able to see her brother through his wolf’s eyes. Magic must be awakening in her blood as well.”

“Answer the question Marwyn, not propose another.” Rhaella scolded. Daenerys knew her mother was no fan of Marwyn. The least conventional of any of the Archmaesters, the conclave at the Citadel had raised a fuss when Rhaegar had broken tradition and chosen the Grandmaester himself.

The man held up a hand in apology. He was chewing on sourleaf, a habit that had permanently stained his crooked teeth red. “These are just theories if you will but considering the evidence they do seem plausible. A warg or skinchanger is a rarity. I believe the saying goes, one in a thousand men are born skinchangers. And I am sorry my Queen, but the ability is not strictly confined to those of the North. But still, it does remain unlikely that the Prince was overpowered by a single skinchanger. Ghost is no ordinary beast and his connection with the Prince would require great skill to manipulate. I can think of only a few capable of the effort.” He paused for dramatic effect but the scowl Lyanna sent him hastened his answer. “ _Shadowbinders._ ”

Only Rhaegar seemed to understand the significance and he clutched the arms of his chair so hard that the wood snapped. “You’re saying my son is being held by monsters?”

Marwyn nodded carefully. “Unfortunately, I suspect that is the reality.”

“I don’t understand. Jon has a dragon. Who could challenge him?” Rhaenys asked. Those words were on the tip of Daenerys’s tongue as well.

“A dragon is of great martial strength, but martial strength does little against subterfuge, and of that the Shadowbinders are masters. The Prince could have been caught unaware and have had little time to prepare a defense.” Marwyn answered. “But the nature of this attack is… curious to say the least. In Asshai, none are more feared than the Shadowbinders. There their magic is the greatest, as Asshai is one of the great anchors but for a group of them to leave Asshai, if the princess’s vision can be believed it would have to be for a reason of great interest to them.” Marywn stroked his chin as he mused.

“And what could they want with my son?” Lyanna demanded. Her storm eyes promised a mother’s vengeance.

“His blood, his dragon or both. Certain bloodlines hold more significance than others. Any shadowbinder is aware of this and Jon is of a powerful bloodline, as are all of you. King’s blood, blood of Old Valyria and even the blood of the Kings of Winter. An individual with so much legacy flowing in their veins would be of great interest to any shadowbinder. Dragons are another matter entirely. It was said that the last of the magic of the world died along with the last dragon, except for places like Asshai. Having one near would undoubtedly boost their power. “

“Enough so that they could control Ghost.” Rhaegar finished. Marwyn nodded. “It still does not explain why. To use Ghost to kill so many people, to target my daughter, there must be some reason.”

“Perhaps, the attack itself was of no consequence to the Shadowbinders. I bet that they would be more concerned with their ability to ignite such an attack. A proof of concept or a test, if you will. In the days of old, Obsidian Candles could be used to plant suggestions and dreams in a target’s head and the Dragonlords were taught from an early age to defend themselves against such manipulation. However, the Shadowbinders of Asshai are known to have more direct methods of manipulating their target’s mind. It is why they are more feared than any other in that accursed city.”

“A proof of concept for what exactly?” Rhaella asked.

It was Rhaegar who answered. Her brother’s voice was grim. “Proof that they can control Jon’s gift of skinchanging. A wolf first and then… a dragon.”

Marwyn nodded. “At its core, skinchanging is the ability to hold dominion over another creature’s mind with your own. Ghost’s bond with Prince Jaehaerys is unique in the sense that the Prince does not dominate the wolf. The wolf is his familiar.”

They were all silent at the implication. _If a direwolf could cause such devastation, then what could a dragon do._ Daenerys felt hot tears on her cheek. Just over a month had passed since Samwell had landed and a week since the Lannisters reached the port. Each day without the sight of Jon’s dragon’s wings and Daenerys feared that her nephew would never come home. _If he does make it home then his mind might be broken._

“I will not let them have my son.” Rhaegar said with conviction. Daenerys wondered if he was now considering Aegon’s plan of threatening a full scale war.

Ser Jaime stepped forward. “Shadowbinders die just as easily as other men, yes?” He asked the Maester.

“Indeed. Though some have tailored their skill to direct confrontations as well. I would treat them with great caution.” Marwyn warned.

Ser Jaime smiled. “This is certainly not the first time that Jon has found himself in some trouble and it is not the last time I will likely save his arse. I will go to Volantis and bring the Prince home.”

Ser Barristan joined in as well. “Ser Jaime will not be alone in this endeavor. With his grace’s permission, I too would volunteer for such a mission.”

Ser Arthur added his voice as well and then all of the remaining Kingsguard were volunteering too.

“Thank you, Sers, but I cannot send you all.” Rhaegar said. “Ser Jaime, you have spent some time in Volantis with my son and perhaps know the city better than anyone here. Ser Arthur, there is no swordsman greater in the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Barristan, I think it goes without saying that we need Ser Barristan the Bold for this mission.” He took a deep breath. “I will go as well. My son is in danger and I do not intend to sit here idly.”

That brought a wealth of protest.

“You just denied Aegon the same request. How is your participation any different than his?” Rhaenys exclaimed.

“Aegon is my heir and I cannot risk both my sons. A father’s duty is to his children.” Rhaegar answered.

“And a king’s duty is to the realm. This attack has made the realm in need of a strong king that can quell their fears. What good will you do half a world away?” Rhaella questioned.

“Your mother is right, Rhaegar. The Kingsguard would be obligated to protect yourself as well as find your son. More harm would be done than good.” Jon Connington added. He tried laying a hand on Rhaegar’s shoulder, but the King pushed him away.

“I would not expect you to understand but I will not leave Jon alone. I intend to look his enemies in their eye before I destroy them.” Rhaegar said. There was a fire in his eyes and his gaze seemed to shrink Connington.

“No one doubts your love for Jon, but I have to agree with the others. How can my brothers and I focus on saving the Prince if we must limit risk to ourselves to protect our King?” Ser Arthur spoke. The words made Rhaegar pause.

“He is my son, Arthur. When I faced the Usurper on the battlefield, it was to protect my family. How is this any different?”

“A battlefield is another matter entirely. Volantis is a maze of a city and Jon could be anywhere. There might be a time where we are outnumbered a hundred to one. None of us are guaranteed to return, that is our duty and what is expected of us when we took our vow.” Ser Barristan said gently.

“Do you not expect me to willingly die for my son? A father does not need to say a vow to remind himself of his duty to his children.” Rhaegar answered.

“And if you were to save him? How would Jon feel if his father died saving him? Guilty or perhaps even worse, responsible. If these Shadowbinders inflict even half the damage that was done to Aerys then he will need his father to help him heal when he returns to us.” Rhaella’s tone was fierce but Daenerys could see the fear on her face. _She does not want to lose a son and a grandson._

It was Lyanna’s voice that brought Rhaegar to reason. The Queen stepped close to her husband and then embraced him. “They are right, my love. You are needed here. The Kingsguard are our best chance of Jon returning to us safely. Let them do their duty while we do ours.”

Rhaegar’s shoulder slumped. “Damn you all.” He kissed Lyanna’s forehead. “Very well. Jaime, Arthur and Barristan you three will stay here along with Jon and myself. We will need to plan the logistics. Mother and Daenerys, I will need you both to meet with Princess Arianne and her cousins. Make sure they are aware that they have the crown’s condolences. Rhaenys please stay with your sister. She has had a rougher day than any of us and needs her rest.” Visenya looked ready to protest but Rhaenys wrapped her arms around the smaller girl which quieted her words before she could voice them. “Viserys-“ The king was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Rhaegar signaled and Ser Walder opened the door. A young boy spilled into the room. His brow was drenched in sweat. He quickly bent the knee.

“What is it?” Rhaegar asked.

The boy spoke quickly. “Lord Redwyne is leading a hunting party to kill the white wolf.”

Rhaegar swore. “How many men? And how long ago did they leave?”

The boy paled at the King’s angry tone. “Half an hour ago I think… the kennel master heard his dogs crying and discovered that the ground had been doused with pepper. A guard said Lord Redwyne left with his cousin Ser Desmond and over a dozen men at arms. They have their own hunting dogs as well.”

Rhaegar left Lyanna’s embrace. “Damn them. Ser Walder gather ten of the guardsmen. We will pursue them at once.”

“Brother.” Viserys said. “What mother said is true. Your place is here where you are needed most. Let me handle this. I am a Prince as well and they will know acting against my orders is a defiance of yours.”

They all stared at Viserys in shock. _Perhaps_ _, having children has really changed him._ The Viserys that Daenerys was familiar with would have never volunteered for such a task.

“Jon is my family as well. I think it would be best for all of us, if his wolf was not butchered.” Viserys answered their stares.

Rhaegar sighed. “Very well, brother. Ser Walder and Ser Arys will accompany you. Travel with haste and be careful. We still do not know if Ghost is still under the Shadowbinder’s influence.”

Viserys nodded, kissed his girls on their foreheads and was out the room in the next moment, the boy and the assigned Kingsguards on his tail.

Rhaegar looked to the rest of them. “Let us get to work.”

 

**Viserys Targaryen:**

 

They moved quickly through the halls of the Holdfast. Viserys slipped on a shirt of dark ring mail, fastened his swordbelt around his waist with both a dagger and the Valyrian steel sword his nephew had gifted him. He had yet to name the blade. It was not often that one came into possession of a new sword and the names had a tendency to stick for centuries. The blade would need a name befitting of its legacy.

By the time they had left the holdfast the light of the sun had already abandoned them. They grabbed the torches lining the serpentine steps and forced their way through the still gathered crowd in the courtyard to the kennels. There the kennel master met them. His bitches were still whimpering, and the squat commoner was red faced and pacing with fury.

“My dogs never hurt anyone. Why would they do this?”

Viserys shrugged. “They will pay you recompense. Are any of your mutts not ruined?”

The kennel master shook his head. “Nay, the poor beast will need their rest.”

Viserys grit his teeth and resisted the urge to slap the man. _It is not his fault._ He reminded himself. Still, without dogs of their own it would be substantially more difficult to find the hunting party. If there were still daylight then the hunters’ trail could be followed, undoubtedly the men were mounted and likely armored as well. There was a temptation to let the wolf kill the fools. Hunting a direwolf was hard enough but hunting the white wolf, an animal as silent as a shadow was foolhardy. However, Ghost was injured and unlikely to be able to defend himself. _Cowards._

“Any ideas?” Viserys asked his Kingsguard. In addition to the two knights, their party had swelled to include fifteen of the Red Guard. Their horses were saddled and mounted. Each man held a torch in hand and his reins in the other.

“Ride to the woods and hope we reach the wolf before they do.” Ser Arys said.

Viserys grimaced. “Thought so.”

“It would be best if we split up to cover more ground. Three men together and cover all directions.” Ser Walder ordered.

Viserys mounted his horse and then turned to his men. “If you see the wolf first do not engage. If you see one of the others raise their crossbow at Ghost, then I expect you to kill them first. Do you understand?”

“Aye!” the men yelled.

_Would you not be surprised nephew?_ Viserys thought as they left the gate. The hook and then the muddy way were crowded with both the city’s residents and those recently arrived, both drunk and completely unaware of the carnage inside the Red Keep. He did not slow and neither did his escort. They nearly rode a drunkard down who stumbled into the middle of the street. He laughed when the man jumped away and fell into the stream of slime running along the street.

Wind whipped at his hair, letting all know that he was the blood of the dragon. Viserys dug his spurs into mount and spurred the horse faster. He was not so skilled as his sister nor his nieces at riding, the women had seemingly been born half centaur, but he did know how to ride at speed. Ser Walder’s big horse surged beside him, it was a big monster of a beast, strong enough to hold the knight and his armor and fast enough to keep pace with Viserys’ smaller mount.

They reached the mud gate in record time and then were exiting the city a moment later. Their horses’ hooves were loud against the stone quays as they rode along the banks of the river that led to the Blackwater.

There were several families who had built shacks along the walls of the city. The early hours of the evening offered an escape from the heat and dozens of men were fishing along the quays while their women washed clothes in the river or peaked their heads out the openings of their shacks to stare slack jawed at the column of riders. Viserys ignored them and guided his horse across the bridge connecting to the other side of the bank.

The sky progressively darkened as they drew deeper into the woods until the only light came from their torches and the bit of moonlight that penetrated the canopy. Ser Arys ordered the men into different directions. While the knights grouped with Viserys.  

They were forced to slow their horses to a trot. Viserys could never remember the Kingswood seeming so dark. The great oaks pressed in close on either side as their trail narrowed and they were forced to ride single file. Ser Walder lead while Ser Arys rode to the rear. They rode until Viserys was sure that the hour of the Bat had bled into the Eel. A cacophony of sounds greeted their ears, made by the forest life that grew active when the sunset. Every rustle of the bush turned their heads and every chirp of some bird or hoot of an owl reminded him of the sheer vastness of this forest. _Will we even be able to hear the screams of some dying man or the last howl of a wolf?_ Every group in their routine carried a warhorn to alert the others and yet Viserys had not heard one blow nor had he heard the barking of hunting dogs, baying of horses or chatter of an angry group of hunters.

There was a caw of raven though. The bird cried persistently and Viserys saw the flutter of dark wings amongst the branches.  “Stupid bird.” Viserys said as the cawing continued. As if the raven understood his words, it swooped low and its talons brushed against his head. He batted at the bird, nearly falling from his saddle in the effort to swat it.

“Get this fucking bird off me.” Viserys yelled at the staring knights. The bird dove again, this time its beak pecked his fingers of the hand that shielded the crown of his head. Viserys yanked his hand away, swiped with the other holding his torch and missed.

Ser Walder simply stared at him dumbly. Ser Arys attempted to help but the knight was impeded by laughter. “Careful Prince you might fall from the saddle and make this raven the first avian assassin.”

The bird abandoned its attack, preferring instead to land on Ser Walder’s shoulder. Instead of swatting the bird, Ser Walder looked directly into its beady eyes. The two locked gazes for more than a moment before the bird flew to a distant branch at the edge of their vision. Black eyes stared at them.

“I think it wants us to follow.” Ser Walder said.

Viserys stared at the Northman in disbelief. “You speak bird now?” he asked.

The knight shook his head. “Nay, but stranger things have happened today than men following the wishes of a bird. Would you not agree?”

The bird cawed again, seemingly in agreement with the knight.

Viserys sighed. “Very well. Let us go then.”

They followed the bird first at the same pace and then a light trot when the bird flew in circles around them, buffeting them with its wings in a sign of impatience. Before long they were at full gallop when the road widened. The sound of barking dogs and yelling men greeted them, hastening Viserys’ heart.

“WE HAVE THE WOLF!” he heard a man cry. Viserys dug his spurs and lashed his reins to bid his mount to move quicker.

Still it took them several minutes to come upon the scene. Viserys saw the crossbowmen first, followed by a dozen men at arms and amongst them were Lord Paxter and Desmond Redwyne. The men-at-arms held thick spears meant for boar hunting and were armored in chainmail shirts covered by studded gambesons, padded greaves and half helms with chainmail hoods. Emblazoned on their chest were azure grape cluster of the Redwyne sigil but in the dark, the fruit looked akin to some misshapen heart.

The group of men were in a clearing just off the main trail. Trees pressed close on either side and their horses whined at the scent of the direwolf. Ghost was before them, cornered against the tree. The magnificent beast was still standing but favored one leg and the moonlight allowed Viserys to see the red stains against his fur, the broken spear shaft still embedded in the wolf’s side and presumably the recently landed crossbow bolt buried in the wolf’s front paw. Ghost bared its teeth in a silent snarl.

Lord Paxter turned his head at the sound of their approach. He looked shock to see them, but his face quickly devolved into anger. “Prince Viserys I mean to have my vengeance.”

“You are out of line Lord Paxter and are acting against your king.” Ser Arys answered. The two knights stood just before Viserys. Half of the men at arms had turned to look while the other and the crossbowmen kept their focus on Ghost.

“My boys were killed by that beast! Loyal subjects to the king and you mean to defend it?!” The Lord yelled in fury.

“My brother has not given you leave to hunt his son’s wolf. Order your men to lower their weapons and there will be no recompense.” Viserys said. In the corner of his eye he could see the Kingsguards’ hand hover above their swords. He resisted the urge to do the same. _The last we need is another rebellion._

“I will do no such thing. What kind of king would protect such a foul beast? That is an abomination that must be destroyed.” Lord Paxter spat. Viserys saw the lord’s cousin lay a hand on the hilt of his blade.

“We did not come here for bloodshed my lord. The king has ordered the wolf remain unharmed for the time being. You will have your justice-“

Lord Paxter interrupted Ser Walder, “When? When will I have my justice? When the King sees fit? I mean to have my justice now. I will wear hang this beast’s fur in my halls and call that justice. But even then, that will not bring back my sons. Tell me, can the king do that?”

Viserys had enough. “Lower your fucking weapons or I will have my knights kill half of you and the others will be put in stocks, so the city can fuck you bloody.”

Ser Desmond spoke then. He was the bigger of the Redwynes. His orange hair looked fiery in the light of the torch and moon. “I see only three of you, four if you count the wolf. There are many more of us.”

Viserys scanned the party. The bark of the hunting dogs grew louder, and their handler struggled to hold back the beasts. They were big black hounds, meant for hunting boars and bears. Four of them. One drew too close to Ghost and the injured wolf lunged. There was a sharp yelp and then a spill of blood as the direwolf ripped the dog’s throat out. A crossbowman loosed a bolt in response and the bolt buried into Ghost’s foreleg. Spearmen on either side of Ghost prevented his retreat.

Twenty men in all and three living dogs against three and one injured direwolf.

“Is that a threat?” Viserys challenged. He did not dare reach for his warhorn.

“Perhaps. I would suggest you turn around and go the other way before it becomes one.” Desmond said.

Ser Arys was the first to draw his sword and then Viserys and Ser Walder followed. Belatedly Viserys wished he wore a helmet.

“I did warn you.” Ser Desmond said. Before he could draw his blade a voice from the shadows interrupted.

“I would take your own advice my lord.” Their horses neighed in fear. And one man at arms was thrown from the saddle as his horse bolted. The other horses looked to follow, including Viserys’ own but he was able to maintain control of the frightened beast.

_That was a girl’s voice._ Viserys realized. He scanned the shadows, but they were too deep to pierce.

“Do you think your tricks will scare us _Prince Viserys?_ ” Lord Paxter mocked. He spat in the direction of Viserys’ feet. “I am prepared to die for my vengeance are you prepared to die for that animal?”

“Choice words.” The girl said and then there was a deep rumbling growl. The spearmen backed away as massive grey direwolf emerged from the shadows. The she wolf was not so tall as Ghost but still the size of a large pony. Her dark golden eyes seemed to gleam.

“Another one!” One of the men cried. Unlike Ghost, the bitch had a deep growl that briefly stilled the heart.

“I will have two pelts then!” Paxter Redwyne cried. “Shoot the wolves!”

“If you shoot I will make sure the silent sisters will have trouble finding your bones.” The she-wolf snarled at the hunting dogs, but they were too far away to challenge as their handler had fallen behind the spearmen.

“Show yourself witch!” Ser Desmond cried. His sword was in his hands, waving wildly.

“Not a witch.” The girl rode from the trees. Her face was unmistakable, a near exact replica of his brother’s queen except for decades younger. “A Stark.”

“I told you I am prepared to die!” Paxter Redwyne yelled.

“But are your men?” another voice asked. Another direwolf emerged from the trees, lean with smoke grey fur and the same glowing eyes. An auburn-haired Lord drew to the side of the girl. They did not look alike but their wolves marked them as kin. The she-wolf drew next to Ghost and nuzzled her head into his side.

Lord Paxter looked unmoved but his men began to tremble.

Ser Desmond glanced at his cousin. “Paxter… perhaps we should-“

“Kill them! Kill them all! I order it as your Lord. I said kill them!” The men did not move. They clutched their weapons in fear.

“Leave these woods and there will be no consequences.” Ser Walder spoke. Those mounted turned their mounts and fled while the spearmen dropped their spears and ran. On a branch above the raven cawed.

Only Ser Desmond and Lord Paxter remained. The Ser still clutched his sword while Paxter stared at the wolves in disbelief. “ _Beastlings.”_ He cursed.

The Stark girl smiled. “We prefer _Wargs_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I need some help with names for the seven swords of the Kingsguard, Aegon & Viserys & Rhaegar & Arya's Valyrian steelswords.


	13. A Black Mercy

 

**Daenerys Targaryen**

The victims of Ghost’s attack were being treated by the Maesters beneath the rookery and at the apartments of the Grand Maester. Along the southern wall of the Red Keep, the infirmary was a short walk from the drawbridge connecting Maegor’s holdfast to the inner courtyard. When Daenerys and her mother emerged, the Silent Sisters had already begun their work of collecting and preparing the dead. Guards held torches as the sisters carefully placed the bodies on stretchers. True to their name, the Sisters were as silent as the dead that they tended. Clad fully in robes of grey with shrouded faces, only the eyes of the sisters were visible. They seemed like endless black pools to Daenerys, as morbid as the god that the women were wed to.

“It is considered ill fortune to look at the faces of the sisters.” Her mother said.

Daenerys frowned and turned to look at her mother as they walked. “You were never one for superstition, mother.”

“Perhaps, I should have been…. Perhaps, we all should have been.” Rhaella answered. Her eyes were pensive.

Daenerys squeezed her mother’s hand. “Do not worry for Viserys, I am sure he will be fine.”

“It is not just Viserys that I am worried about. The Redwyne twins are problematic enough, they were Olenna’s grandchildren for Seven’s sake but the Dornish girl is even more troubling. Dorne has never been quick to forget a slight and are always eager to return it with one of their own. Despite what Rhaegar believes, our words will not be enough to placate them. I fear for you, most of all my daughter.” They paused before climbing the short stairway to the second level.

“Me?” Daenerys asked, surprised. “I am in King’s Landing with my family, what do I have to fear?”

“Do not play dense, girl. You are far too smart for that. You have not grown close to your frog Prince as I would have hoped and now Jon is set to return, greater or worse remains to be seen.” Daenerys stiffened at the mention of her nephew. There was a spark in her mother’s eye that let Daenerys know she had caught the reaction. Rhaella sighed. “I should have never agreed to let Rhaegar marry you off but Quentyn had seemed so harmless, quiet and cautious, much like his father.”

“Quentyn _is_ quiet and cautious.” Daenerys said with more bite to her tone than she intended.

Her mother’s smile was full of rue. “And plain, homely, short but most offensively, _boring._ I know… sometimes though the boring man is better than the charming one. Stable and knows his luck some would say. At least that was my thought, Quentyn would have never been your great love but his spears would have kept you safe.”

“Would have?” Daenerys questioned.

Her mother fixed a stare on her. “I do not pretend to know everything, but I do know that you never had any intention of returning to Dorne, if it could be helped.”

Daenerys thought of denying the statement but decided to do so would be futile. “I did not.” She admitted.

Rhaella laughed. “If only I had the same attitude in my youth; how my father and grandfather would have cursed. I wish they could have met you.” She leaned in close. “You will not be returning to Dorne, that much I can guarantee. The last thing that I want is for you to be caught in the middle of the nonsense that is to follow.”

Briefly, Daenerys thought of her tall knight with his dusky skin and sky-blue eyes. _Those days are behind me._  She reminded herself. “Won’t Dorne raise an issue?”

 “Undoubtedly, but your brother is not so dense as to not realize that Dorne will demand recompense or seek their vengeance. I will not allow you to be a pawn in their game.”

The thought of violence troubled her. “Obara might survive.” She said.

“Life as a cripple, some would say a fate worse than death. Her father might think so as well.” Rhaella said. She motioned for Daenerys. “Come, let us pay our respects.” Daenerys’s stomach rumbled. Rhaella smiled. “And quickly I think. When was the last time that you ate something?”

“This morning.” Daenerys admitted. Her mother scowled at her.

“What did I tell you about forgetting to eat?”

“The mind works best when the stomach is full.” Daenerys parroted her mother’s frequent saying. “I know, I simply lost track of the time.”

Rhaella clicked her tongue in disapproval but did not pursue the issue. They ascended the steps to the infirmary. Down a long, narrow hallway the maesters maintained a series of chambers to treat the wounded. Daenerys could hear several families praying for their loved ones.

_The Mother gives the gift of life,_

_and watches over every wife._

_Her gentle smile ends all strife,_

_and she loves her little children_

Her heart stilled as she caught sight of the knight at the far end of the hall. Tall with sandy brown hair and a powerful build of broad shoulders and a flat torso, he was unmistakable. His head turned at the sound of their footsteps and she saw his blue eyes widen. _Daemon, what are you doing here?_

But the way he looked at her… it ignited feelings that she thought had been long extinguished.

He dipped his head. “My queen.” He said to her mother. With a heavier tone, full of an emotion that she could not discern, he said, “Princess Daenerys.”

There were half a hundred questions that she wanted to ask him. Chief among them was why he had broken their promise. Their last night in Dorne had been one of both passion and tears. A final goodbye before she sailed for King’s Landing. Conscious of her mother as an audience, Daenerys remained silent and passed through the doorway of the chamber when Daemon stood aside.

The chamber was lit with the flickering lights of a few candles. Shadows danced across the bricks and the light of the moon was hidden by heavy drapes. Princess Arianne and her cousin Tyene were gathered around the bed. Arianne lifted her eyes to regard them. Her dark orbs were wet with tears and dark streaks stained her cheeks. The Dornish Princess and Tyene wore fine dresses of silk and lace, Arianne’s was samite, the golden and silver threads interlaced with sparkling pearls and gemstones around the collar, while Tyene’s was a royal blue that brought out the color of her eyes. The beauty of the two was in sharp contrast to Obara’s grim form. Blood stained the sheets and sweat coated Obara’s face. Her right arm ended in a bandage stump. Besides the gentle lift of her chest with each breath that she took, Obara was still.

Daenerys grimaced. Of all the people she had met in Dorne, Obara was one of her least favorites. Quick to temper and possessing a generally abrasive attitude, she and Obara had never been close. _All she loved in this world was her spear and riding. With one arm she will never be the fighter that she once was and even riding will be difficult._

“Your Grace.” Arianne said. Tyene nodded her head as well. The blonde woman clutched the remaining hand of her half-sister.

“We came to give our condolences. What happened was a terrible tragedy.” Rhaella said. Her tone was soft and sincere.

“With respect Your Grace, your condolences would mean more with a wolf pelt accompanying the words.” Tyene answered. The childlike innocence of Tyene suddenly morphed into something vengeful.

“ _Tyene_.” Arianne warned.  The blonde girl turned her attention back to her sister. “Apologies Your Grace, my cousin is simply worried for her sister. The Maesters say _that_ Obara’s survival will be determined in the coming days.”

“She has always been a fighter.” Daenerys said, hoping the words would help. “This fight might be different than the one _that_ she is accustomed to but Obara has you and Tyene to help, along with the prayers of many.”

Arianne nodded. “I wish _that_ she had not been so fierce. They told us Obara tried spearing the wolf before he could leave the walls. If only she had sought cover like everyone else.”

“That is not the way of my sister. Obara was born with our father’s fighting spirit and bravery.” Tyene muttered. Her eyes did not leave Obara’s face.

 _Bravery or stupidity?_ Daenerys could not help but think. If Ghost was making his way to leave the Red Keep then why stand in his path?

Daenerys and Rhaella stood there awkwardly, at a loss of what to say in response. Arianne asked, “When will the King be sending men after the wolf? If more are needed, Dorne is more than willing to provide men for the hunt.”

“Ghost was not in his right mind. In the entirety of the time that I have known him, Ghost has always been peaceful. We believe his violence and attack were due to an external source, someone else is responsible for this attack.” Daenerys answered. Her mother nodded in agreement. Rhaegar did not want the extent of Jon’s abilities to become common knowledge. When Jon first returned to King’s Landing with his direwolf, there had been whispers of _warg_ but he had left for Essos before Ghost’s presence had ever raised a true issue. _But how long can we hide his secret. The people will want answers. Will they accept that it was not Jon’s nor Ghost’s fault?_

Arianne’s brow furrowed. “I do not understand. You are claiming someone took control of the direwolf and set him on us in the castle? How would one do such a thing? And to what ends?”

“My brother is determined to find out and bring those responsible to justice.” Daenerys answered.

“And the wolf? What are your plans for the beast?” Tyene asked. This time her blue eyes stared into Daenerys’s own violet eyes.

“Ghost will be chained and guarded until he is deemed safe.” Rhaella replied. Shock passed over Arianne’s face but Tyene seemed to have anticipated the answer.

“My sister nearly bled to death and her attacker, a beast is allowed to roam freely?” The blonde questioned. She abandoned her sister’s hand to fist the cloth of her dress along her thighs.

“My son will insure that the monster who did this is punished severely but the wolf’s fate is to be determined by the King. I do not presume to speak for him.” Rhaella’s commanding tone made it clear the matter was not up for discussion.

Tyene pursed her lips but stayed silent.

“If you would excuse us, Your Grace, my family has been through much today…” Arianne said diplomatically.

“Of course. Daenerys and I will leave you in peace but if your family requires anything to help with Obara’s recovery then feel free to ask.”

Her mother was the first to exit to the room and so she did not see when Daemon slipped a scrap of parchment into Daenerys’s palm. Daenerys clutched the note tightly and tried to ignore the sudden heat in her face. She did not know whether to be angry or flattered by his brazenness.

Daemon met her glare with a frustratingly sweet smile. “Are you coming, Daenerys? The kitchens should have something to tide your hunger. I do not want to leave Lyanna at the mercy of the Tyrells.”

“Coming mother.” Daenerys said. She tucked the strip of parchment into her dress. At the stairs of the hall, their exit was blocked by the arrival of Cletus Yornwood, Gerris Drinkwater and her husband Quentyn. Cletus and Gerris were among Quentyn’s closest companions. Gerris was tall, lean and comely with blue-green eyes and blonde hair, while Cletus could still be considered handsome despite his lazy eye. They were in stark contrast to her plain and stocky husband.

“I see that you are in one-piece Princess, the realm rejoices.” Ser Cletus said with a flirtatious smile as his eyes roved over her form.  “Your Grace.” He nodded to her mother, his smile faded under Rhaella’s fixed glare.

“Sers.” Rhaella said. She turned to Daenerys’s husband. “Prince Quentyn, I see that you are unharmed. We are glad. My daughter and I just departed from your cousin’s chamber and wished your family good fortune in these days to come.”

Prince Quentyn bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Grace. Your kind words are well received. All of Dorne will pray for Obara when they hear of this attack.” He turned to Daenerys. “My wife, it seems that your beauty has only grown greater in our time apart.  I am glad to see that you are well.” His words were said with more confidence than Daenerys had thought he possessed. Even after their marriage night, Quentyn could scarcely look at her without a blush and his words were normally said with a stutter. She allowed him to kiss her knuckles.

She smiled warmly. “Thank you, Quentyn. You are very kind.” Even as she said the words, she had to somewhat forcibly remove her hands from Quentyn’s own.

“Daenerys.” Quentyn spoke before she could formulate a tactful retreat. “It has been a long while since I have laid eyes on you. Would it be out of the realm of possibilities if we could spend some time to reconnect? Much has changed.”

Daenerys’ smile faltered. _Of course, he would want to spend time with me. I am his wife._ She looked to her mother for help.

“It will have to be some other time, Prince Quentyn. My daughter has forgotten to eat today, and I do not want her to collapse from exhaustion.” Rhaella’s smile did not reach her eyes. “This day has been quite eventful and is not over for us. If you would excuse us, Sers.”

Quentyn nodded. “On the morrow then?”

“I do not know what duties the King will assign me, perhaps I will have free time, perhaps not.” Daenerys answered. She did suspect that their entire family would be quite busy handling the court.

Quentyn smiled tightly. “Soon then, I hope.”

True to her mother’s word, Daenerys did eat. Not a small meal either. Rhaella ordered the kitchen staff to prepare a full course meal for Daenerys. Food for the feast was threatening to go to waste until Rhaella stepped in and ordered meals brought to those still in the courtyard. It was a far cry from the lively feast that was planned but at the very least, none would go hungry that night.

Dowager Queen and Princess sat in a small, windowless servant’s chamber connected to the kitchens. They were alone, seated at roundtable table on wooden stools. Mother and daughter had their fill of honeyed chicken, pomegranates, strawberries and salads of sweetgrass, spinach and plums. Their meal was washed down with red, sweet summerwine that hailed from the finest of Dornish vineyards.

For a time, the chaos of earlier had been forgotten. Daenerys enjoyed her mother’s company more than anyone else, save for Visenya. Her mother rarely left Dragonstone as she preferred the simplicity of their family’s ancestral fortress at the mouth of the Blackwater to the oft chaos of the capital’s court. They spoke of their time apart, Rhaella had only set sail to King’s Landing after Samwell’s letter and there was always more to tell.

Daenerys learned of Lord Lucerys Velyaron’s continued courtship of her mother. The old Seahorse had been her mother’s fiercest guardian on Dragonstone when Daenerys had been growing in her mother’s belly and their relationship continued to blossom after the war had ended. Lord Lucerys’s wife had died ten years ago while bringing the last of their four children into the world and in the years hence, it was well known that the Lord of Driftmark sought her mother’s affection.

“He offered to leave his position on the small council to his brother Monford so that he could spend as much time with me on either Dragonstone or Driftmark. The fool even offered to rebuild High Tide to its former glory should I choose to marry him; though I doubt he has any idea as from where he would gather the needed coin.” Rhaella shook her head.

Daenerys smiled brightly. “I think you should marry him. The man has been persistent, that must count for something.”

“And what would I do with a new husband at my age?”

“Three and fifty is not so old mother and Lord Lucerys is comely, kind and courteous. You could do much worse.” Daenerys argued.

Rhaella shrugged. “Perhaps. Or I could retain my freedom.” The Queen Mother chewed on a strawberry. “Enough of my suitor. Let us talk of you, Daenerys.”

Daenerys fought the urge to wilt under her mother’s gaze. “There is not much to tell.”

“Truly?” Her mother’s eye brow rose. “You should not lie to your mother, Daenerys.”

“I-“Daenerys faltered. She thought of Daemon then. The sight of him confused her. Her feelings that she had thought buried in Dorne, now rose within her and the memories brought a blush to her cheeks.

“Relax, my daughter. This is not an interrogation.” Rhaella said as she took Daenerys’s hand in her own. She kissed her daughter’s knuckles. “Do you know why I named you Daenerys?”

Daenerys nodded. “The journals of Princess Daenerys were your favorite to read.” The first Daenerys had been sent to Dorne by her brother King Daeron II. She had never read the journals nor the accompanying letters as they had all burned at Summerhall, but her mother had recounted many details from the letters in the days leading to Daenerys departure to Dorne.

Rhaella nodded. “It is the best held secret that Daenerys used to write to Daemon even when she returned to Dorne. And an even greater secret that King Daeron intercepted the letters and did not allow them to reach Daemon. Eventually without reply Daenerys stopped writing and finally allowed herself to love her husband.”

Daenerys smiled tightly. “I don’t understand mother-“

“Jon has been gone for four years, my daughter. Four years is a long while for anyone but especially for two who are as young as you both. Time enough for you to look elsewhere.” Rhaella stroked Daenerys’s hair. “Did you? Dorne is a fruitful place. Full of life, love and laughter. I had hoped that you would have grown to love someone there in your new home if not your husband.”

Daenerys hesitated to answer and for a moment she was afraid. Not even Visenya knew of the kisses that Daemon stole and then later the ones that she gladly gave. She had told no one of the love they shared beneath the stars nor of the illicit thrill that their forbidden coupling had brought her. Daemon was tall, handsome and kind. All she could want in a lover and friend, but he was not her husband. That brought her shame. _What would she think of me?_ Her mother’s disappointment was the last thing that Daenerys wanted to own.

Her mother must have noticed her distress. “Daenerys, everything will be fine. I promise you that the words we share now are ours alone.”  The reassurance was enough.

The words were pouring out of Daenerys. For months, she had held her secrets close to her chest and now they lay bare to her mother’s scorn. To her surprise, her mother did not interrupt, nor did she pass judgement. Instead, Rhaella sat and listened. When she was done, tears were spilling down her cheeks, but a weight had been lifted from her chest. Her mother’s embrace made Daenerys feel six years old again, running to her mother when either Aegon or Jon had pulled her hair or played too rough.

Rhaella wiped away her tears and kissed Daenerys’s brow. “Whatever you should decide Daenerys, I will champion your happiness. And keep you safe.”  

Long after her conversation with her mother, and after the furrow that was caused by Viserys’s return with Lord Paxter and Lord Desmond in chains, Daenerys returned to her chamber. Rhaegar was still locked in conversation with his Kingsguard and the recently arrived Robb Stark. A conversation that Daenerys was not privy to. It was frustrating in the least, but she knew her perspective would offer little. Wherever Jon was, he would need the realms best warriors to help him. Not her.

When she stripped for bed, the note Daemon had given fell from the fabric that she had tucked it into. Daenerys unrolled the small parchment and read.

 

_My love, I know that we agreed to never speak again. To abandon what we shared for our own respective duties. I have tried to forget you but each day and night I cannot help but think of you. Unworthy of you I know I am and yet here I have come. Yours if you should want it. Your protector, your lover and most of all your friend. Speak to me when you can._

**Jon**

The shadows swirled around him, shapeless tendrils teased the edges of his vision and a noxious odor choked his lungs. It smelled of burning flesh, decay and corruption left to fester for years. His lungs struggled to inflate, each breath that he took was a harsh labor and yet Jon’s heart hammered in his chest. Every so often the rhythm in his ear was broken by the whispers of the shadows. They spoke in a language that Jon did not understand. Raspy hisses that sounded more beast than man but interspersed in their unintelligible speech, he heard laughter. Claws anchored his form and yet Jon felt the caress of other hands across his armor.

“Maelyx, you must have your eye treated if we are to continue.” The tall Shadowbinder said. His mask was a deep indigo with twisting white runes carved into its face. Of his face, only the red pits of his eyes were visible. In the center of those red orbs were pupils as black as night. The other shadowbinders spoke to one another in the language of Asshai, the tongue sounded scarcely human.

“I want to watch him suffer.” Maelyx said. He had removed his helm and held a hand over the red ruin of his eye. Dirty silver hair spilled to his shoulders. Maelyx had never been handsome. His cleft lip was made all the more gruesome by broken teeth and the scars that crossed his face.

 _Removing one eye is likely to be an improvement._ Jon wanted to gloat, but he could not move his jaw. His vulnerability brought out not only his fear but anger as well. Anger at Meria and Maelyx for their deceptions and trap. _I trusted her._ Anger at himself for being so foolish. The Lannisters had warned him of going to Volantis.

 _Ghost._ Jon thought. The Shadowbinder had somehow sensed his wolf. _Would they have been able to attack if I had Ghost? Somehow, I think not._

“Remember what is most important, Maelyx. The dragon must be subdued before it can be bound. Your brother must-“

“I know!” Maelyx snapped. “I will see to my brother. The dragon, can you handle it without commotion? The city cannot be alerted until we are ready.”

Jon imagined the Shadowbinder’s frown behind its lacquered mask. “You doubt us, Maelyx.”

“That he does.” Another shadowbinder said, disapproval lined its voice.

“We are old.”

“We are wise.”

“The wisest.”

“Those who dare glimpse upon the gates of Stygai.”

“Glimpse but not pass through?” Maelyx mocked.

There was a hiss that resounded throughout the chamber. One Shadowbinder seemed to move threateningly towards Maelyx but a choked gasp left its throat when Maelyx’s hand wrapped around it.

“Careful mage.” Maelyx warned. He seemed unperturbed as three shadowbinders circled around him. They were of varying height and their robes hid their build but even with their masks, none looked as threatening as the tall, armored warrior.

“Enough.” The tall Shadowbinder hissed. “In-fighting will not serve us. Not when our divinity is so close at hand.”

Another Shadowbinder to its right added its voice, to Jon the voice sounded nearly female. “Urrathon Nightwalker would be pleased to see your weakness. Control yourselves.”

Maelyx grinned and shoved the struggling Shadowbinder. “This Nightwalker you speak so fearfully of, perhaps I should have gone to him.”

Another hissed sounded throughout the chamber. The tall Shadowbinder held up its six fingered hand. “Lord Maelyx wants a reassurance of our abilities. Bring the urn.”

Jon could not turn his head to see but a moment later on Shadowbinder held an urn in the grip of its grey fingers. The urn was unadorned, seemingly metallic with a smooth black surface.

Wordlessly, the Shadowbinders moved. One stripped Jon of his right vambrace and the other tore the arm of Jon’s shirt to bare his forearm. In the corner of his eye, Jon could see the evidence of the wound Maelyx had inflicted.

“Your dagger.” The tall Shadowbinder held out his hand. Maelyx hesitated but then removed the dagger from his belt and handed it to the Shadowbinder.

Maelyx’s remaining eye carried a malignant spite. “It is a shame that I cannot hear your screams.” He said to Jon.

“Is that what you wish?” The Shadowbinder asked. “I find the noise often grows tiring.”

Jon felt the claws loosen and control once again returned to his muscles. His sword hand flexed, his jaw shifted. He tried moving his legs, but they seemed made of stone. “You will burn for this, Maelyx. I will burn you all.” Jon promised and then his screaming began. Pain erupted across his sword arm, sharp and biting as the dagger dragged across his skin. He heard blood spill into the urn.

Maelyx’s laughter greeted Jon’s ear. “Scream for me, Prince Jaehaerys. Your screams are music to my ears.”

Jon clenched his teeth. He felt his hatred simmer. The cutting of the dagger had stopped but the pain had not. He thought of Maelyx’s face wreathed in flames and the Shadowbinders screaming in agony as they caught aflame. He laughed at the imagery.

“There is power in King’s blood.” The Shadowbinder held up the urn. Droplets of blood threatened to spill down its rim. The other shadowbinders hissed in excitement.

“Beg me for mercy.” Maelyx taunted.

Jon smiled instead. “I will take your other eye before I kill you.”

“Watch my lord.” The Shadowbinder spoke to Maelyx but Jon followed his voice.

Another Shadowbinder stepped before the tall one. “Too strong a dragon is to overcome with force. The beast must be tricked. ”

Spindly fingers dipped into the urn and when they emerged they were wet with blood. The tall shadowbinder traced lines across the runic symbols lining its comrades’s mask. A strand of hair was ripped from Jon’s scalp and then added into the flames of a nearby brazier. The ruby held in a choker around the painted Shadowbinder’s neck pulsed, the flames flickered, shadows shifted and for a brief moment Jon’s vision was shrouded in darkness. When the light returned, Jon yelled.

“No!” Where the blood streaked mask had once been, Jon’s own face now stared back at him. The Shadowbinder with his face smiled in return.

The grip of the shadows tightened and Jon’s ability to move, to speak, was lost again.

“Treat your eye Maelyx and then prepare. The dragon must be captured before dawn.” The Shadowbinder then spoke in the strange language of Asshai. There was an exchange between the twelve. “Nine of us will go to hold the dragon, three will hold the dragonlord.”

 _Syraxes._ He needed to warn his dragon. The runes on the bronze bars glowed from his effort and a spark of pain erupted behind his eyes.

Laughter pierced the air. The tall Shadowbinder knelt before Jon. “We have dealt with your kind before, _shapechanger,_ that bronze will drain your power before you can reach your beasts.” His spindly six fingered hand caressed Jon’s face. “Worry not. The pain is now in the past. Bliss awaits you. Such sweet bliss.” He reached into his dark robes and produced a wineskin. The Shadowbinder popped the cork and pried Jon’s jaw open.

The first taste of the wine tasted foul, like wine and spoiled meat. The next draught seemed to come to life within him. He could feel the tendrils spread through his chest like fire coiling around his heart. On his tongue was the taste of honey and anise and cream, like the sweat on Elaerys’s skin and the juices between her legs, like hot blood and molten gold. It was all the tastes that he had ever known and none of them… and then the Shadowbinder pulled the skin away.

Red orbs captured Jon’s gaze. His world narrowed to the black pits at the center of the blazing orbs. Jon tried resisting in the only way that he knew possible. Howland Reed had taught him and Robb how to remain in control when they warged their direwolves or skinchanged with other beasts. There was a two-way flow when in animal’s skin. One needed to know how to limit the influence of the beast while they enforced their will. A wall needed to be constructed between where man and beast began and ended. But even then, some of the beast always found a way through.

This was different. Jon felt as if his mind was a great wall being battered by catapults. Siege engines dug their hooks, shadows tore at the hinges of the gates, stones shattered, and ice fell. He felt three different wills wage war against his own. The wall collapsed, and Jon was falling into an endless abyss.

When he came to, twisted towers rose to greet a bright red sun in the middle of an eclipse. In between the towers, Jon could see a woman standing near a rail, overlooking the castle’s plaza. Her dress fluttered in the wind. Tall, blonde and beautiful. She was unmistakable.

“Elaerys.” Jon said in disbelief.

She turned to him. “My love, there you are.” Her hand reached out and caught his own.

Before Jon could question, Elaerys claimed his lips. The taste of her, the feel of her against him, set Jon aflame. His hands fisted in her dress and Jon dragged her to him.

She broke their kiss with a laugh. “Someone is eager. Was this morning not enough?” Her hand brushed his bearded cheek.

 _This morning?_ Had he seen her this morning? He looked down at Elaerys. The playful upturn of her lips had him claiming her lips again.

“Papa!” a child shouted. A blonde blur slammed into Jon’s chest. By instinct, his arms wrapped around the small child “Aemon is being mean. He says that I will never have a dragon of my own.”

Jon stared at the little girl in wonder. Wide blue eyes stared back at him, her hair was silver gold but a stubborn strip of black framed her elfin face. _Father?_

Elaerys gently pinched the cheek of the little girl. “Your brother likes to see his little sister overreact. Do not give him the satisfaction.”

Regardless of Elaerys’s words, the little girl’s eyes pleaded with Jon. He smiled back at her. She could not have been more than five. “What is your name little one?” Jon asked.

Her nose wrinkled. “Don’t be silly papa, its Daenys!”

 _Daenys._ Jon repeated the name in his head. Yes, he knew that. She reached for him and Jon lifted her into his arms.

“You are spoiling her rotten.” Elaerys gently scolded.

Daenys buried her cheek into Jon’s neck and stuck her tongue out at her mother. “Papa just loves me best.” Tiny hands fisted in Jon’s rich crimson tunic. He laughed in answer. Laughed until there was tears in his eyes and then he kissed his daughter’s forehead.

“I do love you sweetling. Very much.” Jon admitted.

“More than Aemon?” Daenys pressed.

As if on cue a boy of ten arrived. _Nine,_ his mind corrected. He was black of hair and indigo eyed. His white tunic and breeches were trimmed with gold. Ghost flanked the boy, larger and fiercer than any human bodyguard. Wrapped around the child’s torso was a black dragon hatchling. It was the size of a medium sized dog, though slenderer and a great deal lighter.

 “I love you both equally, Daenys.” His daughter seemed disappointed by the words until Jon bounced her in his arms.

“A good nameday to you father.” Aemon said. His voice was full of formality.

“Are you too serious to give your father a hug?” Elaerys asked with a raised brow.

Aemon smiled sheepishly and wrapped his arms around Jon’s side. The dragon let out a frustrated screech before taking to the skies. Jon returned the embrace and was delighted when Elaerys hugged his back.

“We love you, old man.” Elaerys said. Daenys giggled.

“Old man?” Jon asked with mock anger.

“Six and twenty is ancient father.” Aemon quipped. “We might have to change your sword for a cane soon.”

“Then you should be prepared to lose to an old man with a cane.” Jon answered. He messed his son’s hair. Before Aemon could reply, a warrior in elaborate black and red armor approached. His coat of arms was a winged white wolf with red eyes on a black field.

“Your eminence.” The warrior greeted as he knelt.

 Jon looked to his wife. She took his hand. “Come, my love.”

He walked with his family up the tall steps to a high balcony shaped in a half crescent. Naemella and Daelyx were there. The triarch walked arm in arm with his sister. “Hello Jae.” He greeted. Jon shook his goodbrother’s extended arm. Naemella kissed his cheek and then tweaked Daenys’s nose. His daughter giggled and tried repeating the same action on her aunt. Jon shifted his grip when she leaned too far forward.

Aemon greeted his uncle which as much as much formality as he did Jon, that is until Daelyx pulled him into one armed hug that drew reluctant laughter from his son. Naemella pinched Aemon’s cheeks and Jon did not fail to notice the blush that ignited Aemon’s face at the sight of his aunt. “Come here, little grandfather.” She ordered and then wrapped him in a full body hug.

Jon could hear the crowd beyond the iron rail that lined the edge of the balcony. It was the thundering sounds of restless thousands. Immersed in the cacophony were the trumpets of horns and elephants, and the ring of some great gong. Thrice the gong rang, the thump sent a vibration through the ground and up his soles to his bones. A hundred drums followed. Beating out a primal beat. When he stepped to the rail, the crowd cheered.

Old Blood mixed with the merchant lords and the merchant lords mixed with the freemen. Tens upon tens of thousands were present, inside the great gates of the Black Wall and filing for over a mile across the long bridge. They wore gold and red, orange and yellow. White streamers blew in the wind, the outline of direwolf with red eyes were visible on the largest.

Elation rushed through the crowd as Syraxes flew above them. She flew high over the city, yet her enormous shadow covered a hundred souls. When she drew closer they were buffeted by the wind generated by her great wings. She landed on the tower behind them. The structure groaned under her weight. Sunlight spilled across her wings and her glimmering form. So bright her form was illuminated that Jon could hardly bear the strain on his eyes.

“Lord Freeholder!” The crowd chanted. Silver cloth dragons joined the wolf streamers. A thousand serpents danced on stilts above the crowd.

Elaerys gripped his left hand and raised it in the air. The cheer turned deafening. Much later, they rode through the streets of Volantis in an ornate carriage. It was constructed of Ashwood so black that Jon first mistook the wood for iron. The carriage was roofless with a sleek body that resembled a wingless dragon. Where the driver sat, the wyrms’s two heads glared with eyes made of red garnet. White Valyrian glyphs painted the carriage’s side and tall streamers bearing the sigil of the winged wolf were anchored to two upright poles placed on either side of the carriage.

Daenys waved enthusiastically at the crowd and even ever serious Aemon joined his sister when an elephant strayed close enough to the carriage that the children could stroke its trunk. Heat from the sun was lessened by the cool breeze flowing from the Rhoyne. A thousand different tapestries hung from the balconies of the shops on the long bridge.

Jon pulled his wife closer. Irrespective of their audience he clutched her hip possessively, delighted as the thin fabric of her dress did little to obscure her form. Elaerys protested good heartedly but acquiesced when his lips claimed hers. “Thank you.” Jon whispered when they parted.

“For the kiss?” Elaerys smirked and then brought the lobe of his ear between her teeth. “You will get more tonight when the city is not watching us.”

His breath hitched, and it took some effort to not claim her lips again. “You tempt me, woman.”

“And you love it.” That he did.

The night of his nameday, the sky was filled with colorful explosions. Micro multicolored suns grew bright against the black sky. Red, amethyst, green and yellow shined for a moment in a hundred separate explosions whose sounds made it seem like the city was under attack.

Daenys stared at the sky in wonderment. They were on the balcony connected to Jon and Elaerys’s private bedchambers. His daughter sat between Jon and Elaerys on their reclined chair while Aemon fed his hatchling strips of cooked meat. Periodically, the little dragon would turn away from his meal and hiss at the sky. Pale smoke rose from its nostrils. Ghost sat in a corner, positioned so that he had a view of their entire family. His eyes were closed, and his head rested on crossed paws but the frequent twitch of his pointed ears hinted at his alertness.

“Is it magic, papa?” Daenys asked Jon.

Jon frowned and realized that he did not know the answer.

“No.” Aemon said as if the truth was obvious.

Daenys frowned in response to her brother’s tone.

“There’s no need to be petulant, Aemon. The smartest men are often those who enlighten those willing to learn instead of lording their knowledge.”

Chastised by his mother’s words, Aemon apologized to his little sister. “They are from Yi TI and are made by alchemy not magic. Burning the black powder gives the charge the energy to fly and different metal salts are packed into the head for different colors. Sodium gives yellow and orange, calcium makes red I think… I’m not sure what they use for green and blue.” Aemon frowned at the gap in his knowledge. “But not magic. Science.”

Four mighty charges were shot into the sky. Their explosion was bright enough that even in the aftermath, the city was lit akin to the dawning of the sun. The colors did not fade like the other displays. Instead, four swirling orbs hovered above the city. One was a sphere of greens, turquoise, brown and white. It was flanked by two other smaller spheres; one stone was a pale red and the other a white dappled with grey. They orbited around the largest, thrice as massive as the other’s combined and so bright that the light hurt Jon’s eyes. For a time, the spheres hung in balance until the one of pale red drew too close to the bright star. Fissures grew steadily until the sphere cracked and burst. An innumerable number of dragons spilled forth, so sudden and lifelike that the distant alarmed roar of Syraxes shook their palace.

When all the dragons had faded out of existence, Daenys laughter could be heard on the balcony. She stuck her tongue at her brother. “Magic. Real magic.” For once Aemon did not have a response. Jon smiled and saw his wife stifle a giggle.

Candles burned low in their bedchamber, casting soft light on the three large tapestries that hung on the walls. Jon laid on the large canopied bed, nude and already stiff as his wife ordered. His impatience grew as Elaerys took longer than expected.

The sight of her was well worth the wait. She sauntered in the room, one bare leg following the other so that the sway of her hips was exaggerated. The slip that she wore was black silk that ended just after her arse. A deep vee cutout of Myrish lace extended from her breast to almost her navel. Her thighs were supple and each step she took gave a glimpse of downy golden fur that crowned the tasty morsel hidden between her never-ending legs. His wife was well aware of the effect she had over him. Her lips were upturned in a predatory smirk. Long golden hair framed her shoulders and blue eyes were ripe with mischief. Perhaps, even more enticing than the bounce of her full bosom was the tight black collar looped around her slim throat.

She stopped just before the bed, turning to allow him to appreciate her full form. His cock stiffened even further when he caught site of the jewel nestled between her cheeks. “Does this please m’lord?” His wife asked with false innocence and a lowborn accent.

It very much did. Even more so when she crawled on her hands and knees to him.

Afterwards they laid in tangled sheets, both sweaty and satisfied. Elaerys gave a mumbled protest when Jon pulled her closer but settled when her back was flush with his chest. His hand traveled from her full chest to rub the barely visible swell of her belly. “I want another girl.” He whispered.

Nearly lost to her dreams, Elaerys mumbled, “mmhmm” before settling deeper into their shared pillow. Her long blonde hair tickled his nose as he breathed in her scent. The lavender and jasmine scent that was always so present was now obscured by sweat and the scent of their lovemaking. Jon’s inner beast practically purred at the thought.

“Nuh uh.” Elaerys said when his half-awakened manhood poked her backside. Even then her legs parted when his fingers dived past her curls. The sleep filled gasp that crept past her lips hardened Jon even further. His manhood was soon in her for the fourth time that night. “You’re insatiable.” Elaerys said with mock scorn but her hips undulated as she accepted his gentle thrusts.

“For you.” Jon agreed.

In the morning, Jon broke his fast with his family and then humbled Aemon in the dojo. His son was strong for his age but too confident in his ability. The first day they trained with wooden swords and the next Jon observed as Aemon learned the quarter-staff. In the late mornings, Jon met with Daelyx and the other Triarchs before holding senate. A few scattered Dothraki warbands had troubled travelers journeying to Valysar but the Dragon’s Legion reported the horselords’s numbers were too low to justify Syraxes’s presence. The Pentoshi Prince had written a formal protest of the forces encroaching upon his lands, but the figurehead could do little unless the Sealord of Braavos decided to sail his fleet. That was unlikely as missionaries led by Red Priests had successfully overthrown the Priest of the Black Goat of Qohor and the city had willingly opened its gate to the Dragon’s Legion. Reportedly, Lorath had expelled the few followers of the Red Faith from its city in response. While the west was chaotic, the east was comparatively silent. The Archon of Astapor had reported plans of an assassination attempt by the remnants of the great slaving families but the threat of Astapor had all but died when Syraxes melted all eight thousand of their fabled Unsullied. Any opposition in Yunkai and Meeren had been culled years earlier by either Daelyx’s diplomacy or the hammer of their legion. Only Qarth remained troublesome but the Jade Gates remained open and trade flowed freely to-and-fro the Jade Sea.

“To peace.” The senate toasted as their session began.

In the afternoons, Jon sat with his daughter and listened as she played the silver stringed high harp that her grandfather had gifted to her. Young as she was, Jon knew his father would be pleased to have another singer in the family. At night, Jon oft danced with his wife or they sat alone in a secluded plaza that overlooked the Rhoyne. Elaerys would oft complain about her students. Almost always the difficult ones were those from the Old Blood. Ever since their reforms had gone into place, children from the Old Blood learned alongside those born from merchants, freedman and former slaves. The political and social upheaval from such a move was massive, controversial and under intense scrutiny. Such a move was essential to the new society that they were building.

A great fanfare overtook Volantis when emissaries from the capital city of Yin of Yi Ti arrived. Their visitors brought gifts of jade, saffron, tourmaline, a thousand different spices and pelts from animals that Jon did not recognize. Ten eunuch scholars came to Volantis to represent their ruler, Bu Gai, the 17th azure emperor of Yi Ti. Their routine consisted of over hundred men armored in lacquered plates of silver-gold, a hundred exiled warriors from tribes of the Jhogos Nai who rode strange, striped horses, and twelve of reportedly the most beautiful women from the southern reaches of the island, Leng. The Lengii women were all slender, with wide golden eyes and skin the color of polished teak. The shortest of the women was just under seven feet while the tallest stood an inch taller than eight. The many thousand gifts were dispersed to members of the senate and their families. Daenys received a jade tiara while Aemon was delighted by his gift of a long-curved blade that glimmered akin to silver.

However, the eunuch scholars insisted the Lengii women were the Emperor’s gift to Jon alone. It was difficult to explain to the foreigners as to why Jon wished to refuse the gift, Emperor Bu Gai had six wives himself and three dozen mistresses. Jon’s devotion to a single woman was a queer custom to their visitors.

“Just accept them and don’t touch them.” Daelyx whispered after half an hour was wasted in carefully attempting to explain the reason for Jon’s refusal without offence. Jon sighed and did just that.

When he explained the situation to his wife that night, Elaerys descended into a jealousy fueled passion that left Jon covered in bruises, bites and scratch marks.

Yi Ti customs were profoundly different than those of western Essos. Months passed before the Eunuch scholars revealed the true reason for their visit. In that time, Jon and Elaerys welcomed their third child to the world. They named their second daughter, Rhaenyra.

After six months of careful diplomacy, the Eunuchs formally proposed an alliance between the Volantene republic and the Great Empire. Emperor Bu Gai’s rule was challenged by Pol Qo, called Hammer of the Jhogos Nhai, who proclaimed himself the first of the orange emperors and more importantly by an exiled Sorcerer Lord, self-proclaimed 69th Yellow Emperor. While the senate, Triarchy and Jon were willing to provide arms and armors as well as establish valuable supply lines through the great Bone Mountains, it was clear that the true intent of the Eunuchs was to convince Jon to aid their empire with dragonfire.

Through their translator, they learned that Bu Gai’s main concern was not Pol Qo but the Sorcerer Lord. “He has bestirred himself from the Mountains of the Morn and with him ride an army of demons. They commit foul blood rites, make sacrifices to some dark god, and feast on the flesh of beast and man. Entire cities have fallen in a single night and come the sun, not a single soul lives to see the light.”

“Well it sounds like this Sorcerer Lord is winning.” Daelyx muttered. A look from Jon stopped their translator from converting Daelyx’s words.

They were in the Senate building, holding audience in the antechamber that served as a private meeting room for the Triarchy and Jon. Jon was seated between Daelyx and his colleagues. Their chairs were carved of wood and ivory, high backed with carved legs and arms so that each chair was given a unique shape. The table where they conducted their normal deliberations had been removed and instead the chairs sat on a raised dias that gave them half a foot of a height advantage over the eunuchs. It was only by the color of their robes that the eunuchs were distinguishable from each other. Bright colored, seven layered silk robes with painted metal shoulders plates, lilies, seahorses or bright colored flowers, and strange hats that curled into a fist at the tip. Every one of their faces were shaved and their slanted eyes and thin lips made the task of telling them apart a great deal harder.

The triarchs looked to Jon for his answer. Jon smiled tightly and carefully chose his words for Leana to translate. “My Lords, Volantis is willing to extend our resources in the hopes of a fruitful alliance, but direct military action is a step that we are unwilling to take. Just as Emperor Bu Gai must defend his borders, we must defend ours. If my dragon and I were to aid in your war, then our enemies would use our absence here to their advantage. Surely, you must understand?”

Their visitors were masters of showing little to no emotion. Despite the rejection, each Eunuch’s face remained a placid mask. None of them had provided specific names. Instead they operated as a collective, with each decision thoroughly discussed between the ten of them before they answered. It was partially why the deliberations had taken so long. Ten different minds had ten different opinions.

Jon and the Triarchs waited while the Eunuchs huddled. He looked to Leana when they began furiously whispering to one another. The translator shrugged. Finally, the Eunuchs came to a consensus. “Master Jaehaerys.” The Eunuch spoke in High Valyrian, to the surprise of everyone. “We understand your duty is to your people and are grateful for the help you can provide. Let it be known however that the Sorcerer Lord is the gravest threat to not only our empire but all lands, even those in sunset. As is our duty, our conclave must do whatever it can to defend the Empire.”  The Eunuch’s bowed as one and then filed out of the room.

That night, Jon rode with Ghost outside of the city. Rarely did Jon have time to ride with his wolf but the hiatus made the ride even better. Wind blew through his hair and his destrier easily outpaced their guard. Ghost was a white blur in the tall grass that covered the banks along the great river. For miles they rode, and Jon felt his mind slip between two bodies. One moment he was one with his horse in the saddle and the next he was flying over the grass with four paws.

A thousand different smells greeted his nose. A hare had crossed this path in the last week, the scent of a small heard of dear was even fainter. They came from the east. He bared his fangs at the recent marking of a bear on a thick bush. His pungent stream of piss erased the scent of the bear’s and marked the territory as his own. Sharp ears heard the flap of night birds’s wings. The birds were agitated. He lifted his muzzle and sniffed for the hawk. Instead, there were unpleasant scents in the air, smoke, death, man-fear.

“Ghost!” Jon exclaimed. Above the city, the dark sky was painted orange. He whipped his reins and dug his spurs. Back to the city, they surged.

 _A fire?_ It had to be a large one if they could see it this far from the city. He felt for Syraxes but his dragon seemed far away. The closer they drew, the more hellish the scene grew. Half the city seemed on fire, thick columns of smoke polluted the air and ashes blew in the wind like rain. Half a mile from the city, Jon could hear the screaming.

 _My family._ His worry increased as he saw flaming bodies jump into the great river Rhoyne. West Volantis was reduced to a fiery labyrinth. Buildings erupted into great infernos as Jon rode past. The city’s residents were screaming or wandering around with dazed expressions. _How could this happen? I haven’t been gone for long._

Ghost ran surefooted through the streets, but Jon had to dominate his horse’s will to keep it from fleeing. The long bridge had not been spared from the destruction. Every shop was aflame or collapsing backwards into the river as their supports gave out.

 _Where are the guards?_ And then he saw them. Dozens of men slaughtered along the bridge. The sound of battle greeted his ears. The gate of the Black Wall was a splintered ruin. Beyond the gate, Jon saw the mutilated bodies of the city guard and spread amongst them were the slain of their enemies- warriors clad in lacquered silver-gold plates and the short, exotic Jhogos Nai.

“My lord.” A warrior wheezed. His dark armor was pierced by several, long arrows with striped feathers. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. He was propped against the steps of a tall tower.

Jon dismounted and approached the warrior. “Who did this?” There should not have been enough men to cause this level of damage.

“My Lord…” The warrior grabbed Jon’s tunic with the last vestiges of his strength. “We tried to stop them… sorcery…your family...”

He closed the dead man’s eyes. Now, Jon understood. _I refused them and now they intend to take my children._ The beast inside him snarled. “No mercy.” He told Ghost. Those sharp eyes understood.

The first man they came upon did not have time to react. Jon’s blade and Ghost’s claws tore his arm off and then his throat. Hot blood wet his tongue.

Wolf and man moved as one. Blade, teeth and claw bit straight through armor, cloth and found the soft flesh beneath. A panic set in their attackers, most tried to flee at the sight of them. He chased them down on two legs and four, two bodies, one mind.

Jon’s rage burned as they passed over the twisted door way of his family’s home. There was a trail of blood that snaked into the palace. Panic and death hung heavy in the air but with the scent of battle came the scent of his family. _No, they will not have them!_

His muzzle was wet with blood. Heat and smoke created a dim hell as he moved further through the complex. Even those with sharp metal teeth turned in the other direction. He ignored them, following the scent of his brother’s progeny.

“Papa help me!” Daenys cried. Her attacker fell to his back, crawling backwards as Jon approached. It was a twisted thing, blackened flesh with teeth like swords and bits of silver hair sprouted from its skull. Unintelligible words fell out of its mouth. A curse or a plea, Jon did not know. He bared his fangs and approached slowly. Daenys was cradled in its arm.

The creature’s grey eyes met his and suddenly Jon’s motion was arrested.

_Focus Prince Jaehaerys. What you see is not reality._

His surroundings suddenly shifted. The dim smoke filled room was replaced by a familiar stone courtyard. A square holdfast loomed in the distance. Screaming and crying assaulted his ears before the scene was gone.

“Papa!” Daenys cried. The creature’s claws were biting into her arm. They were as sharp as sword points.

Jon turned. On four legs he was again. He could cover the distance in a single bound. His legs tensed.

 _Remember who you are Jaehaerys, what you have lost, what you must fight for._ He was in a sea of grass. Blood was in his mouth, running from his blade. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Jon was afraid.

 _No, I don’t want to._ Jon protested.

_You must remember!_

The darkling sky grew a gaunt face with one eye as red as blood. When Jon looked down, Elaerys was in his arms. Her face was perfect, framed by blonde hair and in the midst of a peaceful slumber. But when he went to lay a kiss on her lips Jon could see how the hinge on her lower jaw was broken and one blackened eye, the other so swollen it could not open…

Jon shook his head. He wanted to run, to hide and most of all the find her again, to protect her as was his duty. _I failed her._

 _Yes, you have._ The voice was solemn. _The past has already been written. Remember it._

He remembered Ser Jaime’s pained scream as the knight caught a blade meant for Jon’s throat. He remembered the taste of smoke and fire, of horse flesh and vengeance. He remembered spell forged bronze burning his mind and men cloaked in shadow.

When Jon looked to his wife again her dress dissolved in the wind, and with it most of her flesh. Grave-worms ate her eyes and her shapely form was now skeletal. He screamed. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks.

“Jon!” He turned his head. The creature and his daughter were gone. A beautiful girl with silver hair and grey eyes stared at him. Tears welled in her eyes and her dress was stained with dirt and gore. _Visenya._ She could see him. She could see everything. _I don’t understand._

Pain erupted in his side and Jon staggered but the sensation grew distant. A wolf yelped.

“Father!” Aemon yelled. His son battled fiercely against the attackers. One man fell to the blunt staff Aemon wielded before another grabbed him. “Help me!”

Jon’s entire body felt at war with itself.

_You know what is real and what is not. Remember._

Jon took a step closer. Aemon’s eyes were filled with hope. Hope that his father would save him.

_He is not real. He is impossible._

Another step. Each one felt akin to climbing a mountain.

_You know what you must do._

The attacker dissolved into the dust when Jon took Aemon in his arms. He clutched his son tightly. Patted his hair and committed him to memory.

“I’m scared father.” Aemon admitted. He buried his face in Jon’s neck.

_Do not falter._

“I love you my son.” Jon kissed his brow. He pulled the dagger from his belt.

“Father?” Aemon questioned. Jon’s grip grew tight and he resisted his son’s attempt to pull away.

_Kill the boy._

“I will never forget you.” Jon promised and then plunged the dagger into his little boy’s back.

The world shook and cracked. Towers fell and then smashed into rubble. Heat seared Jon’s flesh and then an intense cold made him shiver. Stars swirled overhead. A dragon, a wolf, a lion and a kraken warred. Time became meaningless, a concept without reference. A lord on a throne of weirwood smiled sadly before fading away as well.

His lungs burned with each ragged breath he took. A flickering candle sat in the small windowless cell he was housed in. Jon licked his lips, tasted dry blood from the cracks in his flesh.

“How-“ The Shadowbinder’s words died in its throat. Chains snapped with Jon’s movement. He lifted the warlock with one hand. Clawed fingers beat at Jon’s wrist and Jon squeezed tighter.

“Die.” The eyes behind the mask grew frantic. The neck snapped in his grip and the body went limp.

Candle flame guttered and died. Jon was bequeathed in darkness. Tall lords stood around Jon. Promises they whispered. Power they promised. He ignored them. Even separated he could feel the pull of Judgement and the pained presences of Syraxes and Ghost. The Shadowbinders had moved him from the arena beneath Meria’s home. Jon moved blindly around the room, in the direction he remembered the door being in.

_We can help you. Power you’ve never known._

_Never tasted._

_Longevity._

_Strength._

_Bind us and we are yours._

“I am a dragon.” Jon lined his voice with iron. The shadows screamed at his dismissal. Their pleas grew frantic and then they died as he opened the door.

Jon staggered from the room. The cell opened to a long, narrow hallway with light from the torches held in scones. His skin felt cool and then he realized he was nude. Even in the dim light, Jon could see the weight he had lost. _How long have I been away?_

The stones held no answer for him. The call of Judgement guided him, and Jon turned left. He chanced reaching for Syraxes but his mind was disjointed. Their connection was full of darkness, pain. _Have they hurt you as well?_ Jon wondered. The thought of his dragon suffering made him angry. He thought of his sister and the blood that soaked her dress. _Please be well Visenya._ His direwolf needed him. _Ghost._ More than a thousand leagues stretched between him and his wolf. Their connection was so faint, Jon could scarcely feel it.

A small eternity seemed to pass for Jon as he stumbled in the dim hallway. His legs sometimes forgot how to walk, and Jon leaned against one wall as he moved. Anger and hatred were his fuel. Voices reached his ear. Bastard Valyrian.

Two slave soldiers were in a square room with a high ceiling. Armor and weapons lined the walls, housed in iron cages. The guards wore light armor with short swords sheathed at their belts. Both their helmets lay on a small table behind them. Jon spied Judgement in one such cage. Spellforged steel was bared and the black ripples seemed to move like waves.

The guards chatted amiably. Their conversation sounded like a shout in the silence. Jon did not listen to their words. He sprung into action, as quick as direwolf. The steel helm smashed into the skull of the guard with the force of a war-hammer. His body convulsed on the floor. The other guard reached for his sword but the flat of Jon’s palm slammed into his nose before he could draw the blade. There was a crack as the man’s bone broke. The force of the blow shoved the piece into his brain.

Jon slit their throats for good measure. Hot blood coated his skin. He smiled at the sight. His fingers found the key to Judgement’s cage. Strength seemed to flow through him when his hand wrapped around the sword’s hilt. “Hello, old friend.” Jon whispered.

There was no time to gloat. Jon’s own armor was nowhere to be found. Instead, he dressed himself in a guardmen’s grey tunic and breeches. With black, steel toed boots that laced at the calf. He shrugged into a boiled leather jerkin. Shirts of mail, gambesons and full plate abounded but Jon forewent them all. Speed and stealth was needed. He wrapped a sword belt around his waist and fitted it with two daggers. Judgement’s sheath was also lost but Jon knew the red-grey blade would soon be coated in blood.

In the torchlight, Judgement seemed to glow with a red malevolence. Renewed, Jon moved through the halls as a wolf stalked its prey in the woods. He climbed steps and twisting hallways. _I’m underground._ Jon realized. _A guardsmen’s bunker._ The Volantenes built their barracks into the earth to better protect their warriors from the threat of dragons. Dust and lack of activity convinced Jon that this one had been abandoned.

There was a rush of air as Jon climbed higher. Dust and stale air was replaced by a promising freshness.  He scratched at the beard that now covered his cheek. _How much time have they taken from me?_

Thick wooden doors banded with iron stood in his way. He smelled the outside beyond them. Jon shoved at the thick doors. The wood barely budged. _Its barred._ A two-foot bar of wrought iron held the door in place, secured by a thick chain that hooked at the edges of the bar and then snaked through an opening in the stone wall to presumably loop around the door. He hacked at the metal and chain with Judgement. His sword bit into the metal but the chain was thick enough to anchor a ship.

Jon swore. He swung Judgement at the door. Chips of wood were thrown with every blow, but the progress was too slow, too loud. Pain seeped through his bond with Syraxes. His dragon was close, still in the city but vulnerable. With each swing of his sword, his anger grew. His blood grew hotter until his insides felt like a cauldron.

Jon thought of the dragonlords in his dreams. Of the rider whose sword glowed like the sun. And the spellswords who were so fearsome. He remembered the energy that flowed through him to remake Jaime’s hand. The rush of power and an ability to remake the world. He remembered Syraxes spewing flames, burning men and grasslands. He remembered the hate on Maelyx’s face and his own promise to watch Maelyx die. “ _Dracarys!”_ Jon ordered.

The rush of energy was instantaneous. The ripples in Judgement’s blade erupted in dark flame. The heat was so intense that Jon leaned away from the sword but in another breath the amplitude of the flames decreased. A haunting edge just over the surface of the steel. He did not have time to be surprised and every moment spent maintaining the spell drained him further.

This time when Jon swung his sword, the chain was split in half. Jon ripped the iron bar from its place and threw it across the room. The effort left him breathless. Jon stumbled past the doorway and dropped to his knees. Judgement hit the dirt, flames dying before it touched the ground. His vision blurred and Jon fought to remain conscious.

A darkling sky stretched overhead. Thousands of stars painted the night’s sky, the heavens were only slightly dulled by the city’s torches. He looked to the ice dragon and watched it glimmer.

“An admirable effort, Prince Jaehaerys _.”_ Jon looked up and saw two Shadowbinders. They were ten feet from him, spaced five feet apart. Their eyes burned like red coals and their robes rippled in the breeze. “But mistaken. You are nearly spent, and your dragon chained. We have gorged on her power and now we must put you back in the cell that you spent so much effort crawling out of.”

Jon staggered to his feet and pointed Judgement at the Shadowbinders. “I will enjoy killing you both.”

They were in an unfamiliar courtyard. Cobblestones were at his feet and two large marble statues dominated most of the space. The naked stone men held twin torches in their fist, the only light besides the stars. Laughter pierced the air.

“Fighting a Shadowbinder in the dark. How foolish.” In the corner of his eye Jon saw movement. He shifted, moving to cut through an attacker when pain erupted across his back. A thin stream of black extended from the left Shadowbinder’s palm. _A whip._

“You’re blood tastes so sweet.”

Jon snarled and lunged. He covered the distance in two long steps. Judgement arced towards the Shadowbinder’s waist… and cut through air. This time a whip tore at his right shoulder. The right Shadowbinder was ten feet away before Judgement could answer.

“Let us bleed him slowly.” The left one said.

“Gladly.” The right one answered.

Jon saw the Shadowbinder’s wrist snap forward and he rose Judgement. He nearly screamed in relief when the tendril was deflected by the steel. Jon pressed his attack. He pivoted and dodged the other Shadowbinder’s whip before closing the distance. Judgement nearly carved into the warlock but the form underneath the robes suddenly became boneless and the cloth flew five yards away before taking shape again. The lash at his thigh caused him to stagger.

_How do I beat them? They move like no swordsman ever could._

Jon dove behind the high base of the statue. Bits of stone tore away from the impact of the Shadowbinder’s whip. A horn blew in the distance. Loud and long.

“The dragon?” One Shadowbinder questioned.

“Something. The others will handle it. Let us end this.”

Jon gritted his teeth and heard the Shadowbinders feet scuffle over the stone. He steeled himself, ready to meet his attackers. The torch glowed brightly over his head. _Fire breeds shadow._ He waited. The Shadowbinders drew closer, on either side of him. The flame casted long shadows. Jon ripped the dagger from his belt. This time when the whip came, Jon was already moving. He rolled and then came to his feet. Putting the statue between him and his pursuer. His jerkin tore at the bite of the whip but Jon ignored the pain. He ran around the statue as fast as he could. The torchlight flickered and the Shadowbinder’s shadow was cast against the wall. Jon drove Judgement into the stone and heard the sharp cry of the warlock.

“I have you!” Jon cried and then he flung his dagger. His shadow pinned by the spellforged steel, the Shadowbinder could not dodge the blade. The dagger plunged into his chest. Jon followed with a kick to the head and he felt the warlock’s skull cave in. He stomped on the mask until it broke and then continued until the Shadowbinder’s skull was reduced to mush. Above the torchlight guttered and died.

“Brother!” The Shadowbinder cried. Jon lunged for Judgement and pull the blade from the wall. Stone exploded just as Jon ducked.  

“Don’t worry you will follow him soon!” Jon promised. The shadows hissed in answer.

Another horn blew. Shouts echoed across the city. Syraxes stirred. He felt her anger. A great righteous fury. Smoke hissed from her nostrils and her form shook as her shackles were loosened. He felt the terror of her goalers. _Burn. Tear. Destroy._

Jon was swept in the emotion. He laughed hysterically.

The Shadowbinder yelled. “There will be no mercy, dragonspawn! You will beg for death until the end of your days.” The whip snapped forward and Judgement rose to meet it. Darkness coiled around the blade and then lengthened to encompass Jon’s arm. “Do you hear me? You will beg!”

The coil of power connected him to the shadowbinder, soul to soul. In an instant, the warlock was laid bare before him. He saw the man that the Shadowbinder had once been. A pact made to the shadows. Innocents sacrificed for power and the never ending fleshpit of slaves. The warlock was ancient, a relic who existed perhaps in the days before Aegon the Conqueror.  Death was the warlock’s legacy.

“You have lived for far too long.” Jon said. The coil tugged at his sword and arm. “May you never find peace in death. _Dracarys._ ” Judgement’s sudden flame raced up the whip. The Shadowbinder screamed as his arm was engulfed. Jon lunged. Valyrian steel cut through mask, flesh, bone and brain a moment later. Jon nearly collapsed in the growing pool of gore.

He heard screaming. The bells were ringing in the city. Boots were stomping against the stone. Horns were blaring. _Syraxes, I am here. Come for me._ Their anger was one. Strong wings flexed in the air as fire spilled from her maw.

Teeth as sharp as daggers tore a man in half. He saw spear wielding warriors marching in formation. They were reduced to burning husks. His long neck scanned for more foes. He roared as bolts pierced his scale. His tail shot forward and impaled a crossbow man.

He heard a voice calling for him. It sounded familiar.

 

**Ser Jaime**

“Jaime-“ He captured Cersei’s lips in a bruising kiss. She returned his kiss, shoving her tongue into his mouth. Jaime answered with a thrust of hips that buried him to the root within her. He squeezed her buttocks, delighted by the feel of the supple flesh beneath his palm. _It’s been too long._

Cersei’s nails would have reduced his back to a red ruin, the way she gripped his shoulders, but his shirt protected him. His breeches were halfway down his thighs, white cloak and armor lay discarded on the ground. The taste of her set him aflame. _Four fucking years._ She had been the only one that he had ever wanted. There had been others in Essos. Tyrion had bought him whores all who were suspiciously blonde and slender but as far as Jaime was concerned, they were poor imitations. They were caricatures of his sister. None had the same shade of her emerald eyes or her wavy golden hair. None had lips that tasted so sweet. Or whose cunt gripped him so tightly. He licked the sweat that beaded on the column of her neck. Summer made her room sweltering. He was glad that they had chosen the wall instead of the sheets. It would be trouble enough to explain his disheveled state to his brothers.  

“Jaime, please.” Cersei whined. Even with all their time apart, Jaime knew what his twin needed.

“Touch yourself.” He ordered. Before he would have done such a task himself. She always gushed when he took her nub between his fingers while he was inside of her. But his left hand was not so dexterous and his right… it was built for war and little else. Bits of stone rained down on Cersei’s shoulder as his metal fingers dug half an inch into the stone wall of her bedchamber.

He felt her hand tease above her entrance. The tips of her fingers explored where they were connected. They both watched as she played.

“Good girl.” Normally such a statement would have made Cersei angry and often Jaime liked it when Cersei was angry while he was inside of her. Now, his sister merely clenched around him and bit her lip when he gasped.

“You missed _this._ ” Cersei patted her clit.

Jaime nodded. “I did. And I know you missed this. The floppy fish doesn’t compare.” He had paid the singer ten golden dragons when the man had played the bawdy song. Edmure’s red face and the fact that he couldn’t throw out a minstrel in his hall in the presence of a King had made that trip to Riverun the most memorable one he ever had.

Cersei was too close to answer, but he knew the words did something for her. The pitch of her quiet gasps grew higher.  The hour was late, and her children were in their beds. Their father was absent, in deep conversation with the King and the most prominent lords of the Reach. Jaime himself had been there for hours himself, until Rhaegar dismissed them until morning came. Provisions were already being gathered for their trip, but their ship had yet to arrive. Ships were numerous in King’s Landing but only the Swan ships of the Summer Isles would be suffice for their needs. Large and swift but most importantly crewed by the best sailors in the world, who jealously guarded their maps and charts of the winds, a trip on their ships could reduce the more than a month-long journey to little more than two weeks, less than half of what it would take an experienced Westerosi crew.

When his sister climaxed, Jaime followed, silencing her scream with his lips. He pumped his seed into her, determined to put it so far that it would leak out of her for hours. He laid her on the bed. Already, he regretted not being able to stay with her. This day had run too long. He needed sleep.  

“Stay.” Cersei said. She wore a thin shift of red silk that rose high on her thigh. Her hair was tussled and her lips delightfully swollen. When she saw his gaze, her legs spread wider. He could see the outline of her nipples through the silk. Despite his exhaustion, Jaime’s cock rose again.

“Won’t your lord husband protest his wife having a visitor this late?”

“That never stopped you before.” Cersei’s smile was intoxicating. She crawled on her hands and knees to him. Her fingers deftly unlaced his breeches and when her mouth slipped over him, the short battle of wills had been lost.

Cersei rested against his chest. Her fingers played with the fine hairs that covered his navel. He had missed having her next to him most of all.

“What will Rhaegar do with the wolf?” Cersei asked after a long, comfortable silence.

Jaime noticed the way she said Rhaegar instead of _King_ Rhaegar or the _King._ He bit back the ugly feeling in his chest. “Send it north with the other Stark wolves, I would assume.”

“It killed over a dozen men.” Cersei sent him a look of surprise.

“I wouldn’t be here if it were not for Ghost. I don’t care if he killed a hundred children. His Grace will not condemn Ghost to die.” Jaime smiled and tugged Cersei tighter to him. Her leg crossed his hips and he could feel the leaking slick juices from her cunt against his thigh. “They will protest for sure. His grace will placate them with gold or lands or a charter.”

“And if that is not enough?” Her tongue traced his ear. His soul was willingly but his cock was spent.

“If they want blood, we will give it to them. I’d suggest buying more Arbor Gold if it comes to that.”

“Why?”

“I imagine it is a bit more difficult to produce wine when your vineyards have been turned to ashes.”

Cersei laughed. “I wish that I could have been there to see Olenna’s face when she heard the news. Stupid bitch got what she deserved.” Apparently, there was still some bitterness in his sister about Myrcella being passed over in favor of Margaery for the betrothal with the Crown Prince. After Aegon’s outburst, Jaime wondered if that marriage would even happen. The thought of Mace Tyrell growing a spine and rebelling held its own appeal. He had seen Ser Garlan in the training yard and his new brother, haughty Ser Loras who believed himself worthy of a white cloak. How confident would the Roses be against an actual dragon?

“I saw her face.” He kissed his sister’s lips. “Even more wrinkly than ever.”

Cersei’s nose scrunched in distaste. “And the Dornish? I can’t imagine them staying silent.  Especially with one of their precious bastard girls hurt. I’d wager that they will be a bigger nuisance than Olenna.”

Jaime thought of the Sand Snakes and their father. In the year after the rebellion, after Princess Elia had returned to Dorne it had been rumored that Prince Oberyn Martell’s anger was legendary. For the first two years of King Rhaegar’s reign, the Queen and Jon were assigned at least two food tasters before they ever ate a morsel. Only after, young Rhaenys had scheduled routine visits with her mother, did the precautions abate. “If they are smart then they will count themselves lucky that an arm is not a life.” Even as he said the words, Jaime knew that they were a lie. When he had been maimed, Jaime had thought his fate was worse than death. Next to Cersei, his skill with a blade was his greatest pride.

Cersei stared at his flexing hand. Jaime’s leather glove still covered the glowing steel. The artificial hand felt strange. Far stronger it was than anything of flesh and bone. He could feel almost as well as his left hand, though sensations like heat or cold, soft or abrasive, were largely meaningless. His grip was virtually unbreakable, as dangerous as any blade. Yet his fingers would sometimes articulate on their own or spasm with enough strength to grind stone. Many of the most mundane tasks, Jaime had to teach himself to do with his left. Only when he dueled did Jaime feel entirely in control of his new appendage.

“Can Jaehaerys not heal the girl as he did with you?” Once his hand was revealed Jaime had endured endless questions. The worst were from the King and Marwyn. Each studied his new hand as if all the secrets of the Citadel were housed somewhere in the steel.

Jaime snorted. “This hand of mine cost a Valyrian steel sword and most importantly, nearly cost Jon his life. A Dornish bastard is not worth either.”

Cersei wholeheartedly agreed. “Still it would have appeased the girl’s father. The Red Viper has never been known to be forgiving.”

“Then he should learn quickly.” Jaime’s fingers flexed with the threat of his words. He added, “The promise of death is usually a powerful motivator. Even for the Dornish.”

His sister rolled from bed. She was nude now, the entirety of her lean form bared to him. Every action that Cersei performed was with a certain gracefulness. The way her hips swung from side to side as she stalked over to the far side of the room, to the way she poured herself a glass of wine and even the way she held the glass to her full, red lips. Jaime watched her drink deeply, mesmerized by the way her breasts bobbed and her nipples tightened in response to his gaze.

“Do not forget I am still mad at you. Leaving me alone for four years was cruel.” Cersei pouted.

Despite her playfulness, Jaime could not keep the bitterness away. “Your husband was here. I see his company was enough to produce another child.”

Cersei laughed. Jaime’s eyes narrowed. “One would think a Kingsguard would need to have an eye for detail. You though, are quite blind.”

“Speak plainly sister.”

“Tommen is yours, you fool. His age? His eyes? All yours. Think of the timing from when I last saw you. He’s your son. _Our son._ ”

Jaime did not know what to say. Children had never been much of a concern for him. He had always wanted to be a knight. The greatest of an era. Babies had a tendency to get in the way of such goals. Still, Jaime had felt anger and disappointment that his sister had two children not born of his seed. Now, he apparently had a son of his own, Jaime did not know what to feel. “Cersei-“ Jaime started.

“Not that it matters, I suppose. Joffrey and Myrcella are your nephew and niece and you haven’t given them any attention. They may as well be strangers to you.” The playfulness of her tone was suddenly gone.

“What do you expect me to do?” He asked, both tired and exasperated.

Cersei’s brow furrowed. “I expect you to begin placing your family first.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “You sound like father.”

“Like father, I have not forgotten that I am Lannister of the Rock. And like father, I know that there is more to life than being a glorified bodyguard.”

“Like pretending to be a high and noble lady while alternating between her husband’s and her brother’s bed? Is that the true meaning of life? Please enlighten me, sweet sister.” Jaime caught his sister’s wrist before her hand could connect with his face. She tried yanking it away from him, but Jaime pulled her into his lap instead. Cersei struggled for a while but stilled when she realized that it was futile. _How she hates to be reminded that I am stronger than her._ As children they had been so identical, that with clothes on, servants had trouble telling them apart. That had changed when manhood struck him. Cersei wore her dresses and Jaime had his sword.

“Did you forget in those four years you were away?” Cersei asked. Her voice was harsh, barely above a whisper.

“About us?” Jaime kissed Cersei’s collar and shifted her closer so that her back was flush with his chest. “Never.”

The tension in Cersei’s back did not abate. “No, you fool. About our family. About my children. Joffrey wishes to squire with one of the Kingsguard. I would prefer his uncle to take responsibility, but the others would do as well. Not the Tyrell boy though or that simple Northmen.”

“Joffrey has a Ser.” Jaime reminded. Tybolt Crakehall was the heir of Lord Roland Crakehall, a chief bannermen sworn to Casterly Rock. _A decent jouster, a bit dull but dutiful. More importantly he might teach Joff some humility._

“Do you think Tybolt is equal to a Kingsguard? Joffrey will be Lord of the Trident one day, his bannermen need to learn to respect him.”

“Then have him squire with the Blackfish or a Blackwood, a Mallister might suffice. I’m sure the River Lords would love to host their future Lord Paramount.”

“Your refusal to help proves my point. Abdicating his squire ship with Tybolt in favor of one with a river lord would only stir controversy. Joffrey represents a tie between the Rivers and the West. He must appear to remain neutral.” Cersei explained as if he was simple.

“Then let him stay with Tybolt. My brothers take squires at their own will. “Jaime knew that his sister was scowling even though her face was turned from him.

“Then if you will not help your nephew then what of your niece? First Myrcella was promised to the Prince and then you helped him run away. Now she must share him with his sister? What next, will her betrothal be broken entirely? I thought that this Prince was half Stark, are they not supposed to be honorable?”

“Jon did not make the proposal. The King did so on his behalf.”

“We all have our duty. Did you think I wanted father to sell me off to the highest bidder?” Her lips pursed. “No. I did not. But I married who father chose because it was my duty. What makes the Prince so different?”

“No breasts. A cock and a dragon, I think.” Jaime joked. Cersei did not appreciate his humor.

“Can you take anything seriously for once?” Cersei tried pulling away from him again. Jaime’s arm tightened around her waist. She huffed in frustration. “Myrcella has prayed for his safe return for four years. Even when it became likely that you fools were dead. What would it do to her if Jaehaerys simply discarded her?”

Jaime did not pretend to know what his former squire’s thoughts were. Much of Jon’s cheer had died in those grasslands, along with Elaerys. He would prefer if Jon remained free from the schemes of his family and court life in general. Cersei was not done with her tirade.

“What do you think father will do when we are denied yet again?”

“Careful sister.” Jaime warned.

Cersei dug her nails into his thigh. “Or what?” She goaded. “Are you a glorified bodyguard or a Lannister?”

Her words stung him more than he cared to admit. “I am a Kingsguard and a Lannister.”

“Lion’s have pride, brother. You take pride in your white cloak and your sword while mine is in my children and our family’s legacy, as is father’s. A lion’s pride can only be beaten so many times before he lashes out and lions have sharp claws brother.”

“Dragons have much larger claws, sister _and_ fire.” He reminded.

“Dragon. As in one. And I seem to recall a certain wolf rampaging through a garden of grapes and roses. Did he not knock over a few spears on his way through as well? Wedding the dragon and the lion sends a strong message don’t you think? Stability in the face of strife. The alternative, well… I imagine that would be more chaotic.”

Jaime gripped his sister’s shoulder and forced her to face him. Cersei stared back at him with eyes full of- _scorn? Judgement? What does she wish for me to do?_ “Stop it. If you were anyone else, then I’d throw in you in the black cells.”

“I have done nothing to warrant such action. My words are a reminder, dear brother, that every action has a consequence. Guarantee your niece the happiness that she deserves, and the strength of House Lannister is permanently tied to the crown.” Cersei’s nails dug lightly into the base of his neck and shoulder. He breathed deeply to calm his heart and inhaled the sweet musk that was the mix of their scents.

“You make it sound so easy.” Jaime bit out.

Cersei’s brow rose. “Does he find Myrcella undesirable?”

“No.” Jaime admitted. In fact, Myrcella did bear a passing resemblance to Elaerys. Though the Volantene girl had been taller than his niece with straight gold hair instead of Myrcella’s lovely curls. “There is always Daenerys and his sister I suppose.” _Jon is a Targaryen after all._ Not that Jaime could blame him. He wondered if he and Cersei would have been able to continue their affair if Robert Baratheon had emerged victorious on the Trident.

“Daenerys is wedded and bedded. Don’t tell me that he would choose to pursue a childhood romance and risk ruining the crown’s relationship with the Martells even further. And his sister is still half a girl, likely flowered a few moons ago. Myrcella is a woman grown and if the girls take after their mothers then Myrcella is more likely to give him children. The Queen Mother struggled for a decade to give Aerys more heirs, who is to say Daenerys won’t take after her mother? And the Stark woman failed to give Rhaegar more than two children. Visenya has her mother’s narrow hips.” Cersei leaned in and placed a kiss across Jaime’s lips. He tried turning away from her, but she kissed along his cheek and then up his neck to whisper in his ear. “Convince the Prince that it is in his best interest to wed Myrcella and you save the realm a lot of strife.” She nibbled his lobe. “Perhaps, you will receive a reward for your efforts.”

Her hands were forcing him away before he could reply. “Go and rest. You have a Prince to save, do you not?”

**Jon**

He stumbled once again and used his sword as a cane. The excitement of battle was wearing off and now the many aches of his body were slowing him. Blood trickled down his thigh and each step brought a dull burst of pain. _Syraxes to me!_ He could feel his dragon’s emotions pooling across their bond. A torrent of white-hot anger threatened to consume him each time that he connected with her but Syraxes would not listen.

Ropes and chains wore looped around her limbs and horns. They were once anchored to reinforced stone blocks buried into the walls and the earth, but her bonds had been hacked away. Rather than fly to him, Syraxes was intent on killing all who stood in her path. He tried to dominate her will and Syraxes lashed out so harshly that Jon was driven to his knees, briefly crying in agony as a mental spike shoved deeply into his skull. Any other time and Jon may have been tempted to let his dragon have her way. But Syraxes was dying, even if she did not know it.

For every man that she killed, five more appeared. Her perspective was a haze of fire, blood and absolute chaos. In her peripherals, Jon had seen tiger cloaks turn on each other. Some risked life and limb to free Syraxes while others cut down their comrades with the element of surprise. Syraxes seemed to vaguely discern those that stood with her from those that were intent on killing her. A streak of her flame reduced ten men to burning, screaming husks of flesh and steel. The tiger cloaks responded with spears, arrows and a hail of crossbow bolts. Most scattered off her scales but many embedded into her flesh, only to be halted by muscle or bone.

His dragon briefly took wing, only to descend upon a column of riders that were pouring in from a side gate. Their horses’s screams reverberated in Jon’s mind until he was forced to close the connection. He stumbled once again and pounded his chest to distract himself from the pain. Horns and screams were blaring throughout the city. He heard the uniform sound of boots on stone and knew Volantis was amassing an army to kill his dragon.

Jon willed himself to move. The courtyard of the barracks was behind him, as was the carnage that he had left during his escape. _She is so far from me._ He thought with despair. They were nearly on opposite ends of the city, but the battle could be heard from where he stood. Curiosity and confusion engulfed the citizenry and hundreds poured out from their homes to find the source of the commotion. _Go back inside!_ Jon wanted to scream but instead he stumbled faster, hoping that none would notice him. Too late, there was a shout from someone, somewhere behind him. Jon tried to run but then he heard the turning wheels across the pavement. Three great chariots spun to face him.

They were pulled by big stallions in red and golden armor with three tiger cloaks apiece in each carriage. Six of them held spears and three had notched black feathered arrows in their short bows. If he tried to run they would ride him down before he could move even ten yards, so Jon readied his sword and widened his feet. The men were shouting at him in bastard Valyrian but the blood pounding in Jon’s ears was deafening. Their faces were hidden behind snarling tiger helms and their capes billowed in the wind. Jon should have shaken with fear, maybe even pleaded for mercy. Instead his sword was held steady, his breath slowed yet his heart raced. Each moment brought them frighteningly closer, until Jon could feel the shake of the stone beneath his feet and then he struck.

Briefly he was one mind in four different bodies. War horses they were, eager to run, even into danger but they were still prey and he was a dragon and a wolf and now their master. Screams were ripped from the throats of the tiger cloaks as their mounts turned and their chariots collided. Splinters flew and then bodies. A mass of horses, men and splintered wood missed Jon by inches. They rolled end over end, blood and limbs coating the stone wherever they touched the ground.

Jon fell upon the survivors before they could rise. Judgement seemed to sing as it drank the blood of the broken men. For each man he killed, Jon seemed to be able to move a bit quicker and his pain dulled. _Perfect, drink._ Jon slid his blade between a tiger cloak’s ribs. A gasp of surprise left both their lips, Jon could feel the man’s soul bared to him and its terror as Judgement tore into it and pulled the essence into a fiery hell. Strength began to return to him.

 _To me Syraxes! Please._ This time, his dragon recognized his voice and abandoned her prey with a great flap of her wings. A crowd gathered around Jon, but they quickly fell away when Syraxes landed with a great crash. His dragon scorched the citizens until they stampeded over one another to get away. “Easy Syraxes.” Jon cried. Syraxes turned to him and the promise of death was in her eyes. He froze. _Friend, remember?_ He repeated the words out loud. “Friend. They tricked me too.” Syraxes rumbled angrily. Jon took the chance and rubbed her snout. He forced himself not to look away even when she flashed a row of razor sharp black teeth. _Show no fear. Give her no doubt or you will be lost._

Her blood boiled around the many arrows and spears embedded into her scales. Jon tugged at a spear shaft that was lodged a foot into Syraxes’s side. Scalding hot blood poured over his sword hand but he persisted until the spear was on the ground. He moved to the next and then the next until his hand was cracked and blistered.

“We have to go.” Jon said to his dragon. She had turned her head to regard the column of warriors moving towards them. They stuck close to the walls of the city, shields held high and spears at ready. Arrows fired from their great bows. Some flew wide and others cracked against Syraxes’ scales. “Please Syraxes.” Jon plead as he mounted her. Her saddle was lost, and he wrapped a rope hanging from her horn around his waist to secure himself. An arrow embedded itself into Syraxes’s nostril and she let loose a roar that caused their attackers to stumble.

Another burst of her wings and they were soaring. Two arrows punched through Syraxes’ wings and her fury became paramount once again. Jon was swept in the tide. They circled just above the roof tops and then dove swiftly to burn their enemies. On the ground, Syraxes was powerful but at her most vulnerable, but in the air with the buildings as cover, Syraxes was near invincible. The ordered lines of the soldiers broke under the wrath of their fire, and the warriors were soon diving for cover.

 _Rip. Tear. Destroy._ If it moved, then it died. They were was akin to some great, fiery bird of prey and the Old Blood became rodents. Flames washed over men, women and children like cerulean and gold waves. Stone cracked, wood burned, human bodies exploded under the heat and pressure but the dragonstone ignited into a thousand different colors.

He saw a family of four race up stone steps only to be engulfed as the flames snapped at their ankles and then ignited their garments. The mother died clutching her infant to her breast. Syraxes relished in the destruction and lazily flew between buildings to look for more targets. Jon’s horror was enough to allow him to find himself once again.

 _“Eglikta.”_ Jon ordered as he came to awareness. _Higher._ But he did not attempt to reach across their bond once again. “You have broken them. Please Syraxes, no more.” He yelled the words in High Valyrian. Mercifully, they rose above the buildings and when Jon looked down, the chaos that he had unleashed was revealed to him. In her madness, Syraxes had turned entire buildings into pyres. Rows of them were burning and the flames spread wherever they could.   _I have become death._

Jon watched a boy scream for help on a balcony fifty feet above the ground as the flames ate away at his home. A great rush of air by his face turned Jon’s gaze away from the desperate struggle. _Bolt throwers._ Jon realized. Tiger cloaks were pouring onto the walls to man the throwers. Several of the throwers were already aflame, creating huge smoke columns that added to the haze above the city. _Sabotage. A mutiny?_

Syraxes was angling to face her new foe. “ _Eglikta._ ” They climbed more than a hundred feet in the air. Below, he could see a three-man crew hastening to load a new bolt. Syraxes curled her wings close to her body and they fell as quick as an arrow. Jon bid her to sway horizontally and the bolt thrower was forced to adjust. The projectile flew too wide and then two of the tiger cloaks died in a cloud of fire, the third was impaled by Syraxes’s dagger like tail and then his body was flung beyond the black walls.

“ _Henujagon_ ” Jon yelled above the wind. _Go west._ He chanced a mental order. Syraxes snorted but obeyed. They banked sharply, and Jon clutched her rope in one hand and held his sword in the other. The long bridge stretched beneath them, a winding snake on a sea of black. Onlookers covered the bridge like ants feasting on a corpse, but it was the fist of red and orange that drew Jon’s attention.

“Demon!” A powerful voice shouted. It was louder and more powerful than any voice that a man could produce. Almost primordial. A challenge. Jon knew the voice. _Benerro._

He felt a visceral anger engulf him. _Benerro. Maelyx. Meria._ He had only come to this city to lay Elaerys to rest. _All those people dead because of them._ Syraxes was already turning to face the challenge. Jon welcomed it.

They hovered above the Long Bridge. The High Priest of the Red Faith was there in elaborate red robes and scarlet steel. In his hand, he held a Valyrian steel scepter that clutched a gem that glowed like a tiny sun. A hundred of the Fiery Hand were behind them. Orange streaks of heat trailed from their burning spear tips and the warriors held shields of black steel, emblazoned with writhing flames.

“Benerro!” Jon shouted. Syraxes roared and the onlookers on the bridge screamed. “You were right. I do bring death and now I bring yours.”

“You are a foul demon! Death is both your curse and legacy. No more!” The mask that Benerro’s tattoos formed glowed. A foul chant left his lips. Waves of heat swirled his robes and the great gem pulsated.

Syraxes snarled in response, angry and alarmed at the sudden rush of magic. Both panicked. “ _Dracarys!”_ Jon screamed. His dragon reared and released a river of flame. It poured over Benerro and the warriors closest to his back but instead of screams the chanting grew louder. Horrified, Jon watched as the flame spread to swirl over the entirety of the host of warriors. They dipped their spears into the cerulean flames and streaks of gold added to the twisting inferno. _Fly Syraxes!_

Her wings beat furiously, and they were suddenly a hundred feet away from the bridge but when Jon looked back he saw a great winged serpent giving chase. Its body was blue and gold, its teeth were orange with a wispy, scarlet tongue and its eyes, bright white and without a soul. As fast as Syraxes flew, the fire serpent flew faster.  Syraxes tried to turn and outmaneuver their pursuer but it could change direction far faster than his dragon. The creature bit at Syraxes’s tail and Jon felt the scorch.

They were over the deep harbor of Volantis now, desperately dancing away from the fire serpent. Jon looked to the black water and saw salvation. _Dive Syraxes! Into the water._ A hundred feet above the water, Syraxes pulled her wings close and they fell. He pressed his face to her scales and wrapped his arms around her. The maw of the fire serpent threatened to engulf them. Daggers of fire raked across Jon’s back and then the water slammed into his chest with a force that robbed him of all the air held in his lungs. Darkness took him.

Jon awoke to the gentle caress of fingers on his cheek. They were soft and elegant. A thumb traced his bottom lip, it was a welcome distraction to the dull ache in his ribs. When his eyes opened, Jon saw Elaerys’s smile and he panicked. The ache turned into a sharp series of stabs and Jon gasped. Suddenly, he could not breathe.

“Calm yourself, Jaehaerys. It took a great deal of power to heal you. I do not want my work to go to waste.” Gentle, vaguely familiar and strangely seductive.

“Kinvara?” Jon asked with eyes closed. He did not trust his vision yet.

The Red Priestess kissed his brow. “I did warn you that they would plot against you.” He could feel her smile on his skin. “Though I had hoped that you would listen, all is not lost.”

Not understanding what she meant, Jon chose to ignore her cryptic statement. “Syraxes, where is she?”

“She is just outside our tent. Can you not feel her?” Jon could. He also felt soft sheets against his skin and realized that he was nude beneath them.

“Where am I?” Jon’s eyes did not tell him much. Daybreak had passed as light spilled in from underneath the flaps of the tent. His surroundings were dim, the tent was large enough to stand and his bed was a pile of sheets a top a mattress of feathers. Judgement lay on a round table in the far corner. Kinvara was kneeling at his side. The choker that she had worn was gone and now Jon could see the flame tattoo that covered her face.

“On the beach where we first met. Your dragon returned here as I knew she would and brought you to us. Your hand was badly burned, your thigh, back and shoulder nearly cut to the bone and three of your ribs are broken, the others likely cracked or bruised. Our lord clearly has great plans for you, few could live through such punishment.”

“Oh, I feel favored.” Jon said dryly. His right hand was wrapped in a glove of gauze and he felt similar bandages on his leg, shoulder and back. His torso was wrapped tight enough that Jon found it difficult to breathe deeply.

“You should. A great victory was just dealt. Now those who oppose the path that the Lord has set you upon, are weakened and vulnerable.”

Jon stared at Kinvara incredulously. “You are not serious? That was a disaster. Those Shadowbinders… Syraxes and I nearly died and Benerro can use magic more powerful than I have ever seen.”

“The Shadowbinders pervert the gifts that our Lord grants us. As such they wed themselves to the Shadow and are weak to R’hllor’s cleansing light. Their power wanes greatly during the day. Benerro has erred; such magic comes at great cost and even he will be reduced for months.” The priestess laid a hand above his heart. “Do you feel it? Now is the time to strike.”  

 _She was behind the mutiny._ “Why would I? Did you see the death back there? Women, children…” A shudder ran through him. _That woman with her baby._

“To achieve peace, one must first sacrifice. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the peace. Those of the Old Blood have long been content to sacrifice others for their own peace while the majority starve and are crushed underfoot. It is time for their rule to end and for yours to begin. Blood must be spilt before the swords can be sheathed. Do you understand?” Kinvara leaned in close but Jon pushed her away.

He struggled against the pain in his ribs and his leg when he tried to stand. Balance did not come easy to him and Jon crawled across the floor to grip the edge of the table before standing.  A spell of dizziness threatened to topple him before he could take a step but Kinvara caught him before he could fall. “No, I will not. What kind of monster do you think I am?” Jon questioned.

“Not a monster at all. Though in the beginning, all great men are often seen as monsters. Do you think the aristocracy of your Seven Kingdoms looked favorably on your ancestor Aegon and his sister-wives? And yet they forged a dynasty that lasts until this day. Was blood not spilled? Did their detractors not think them monsters of legend? There is power in your blood and our Lord has gifted you a destiny that must be fulfilled. Do not run from the inevitable, Jaehaerys.” Kinvara tried to lead him back to the bedding but Jon dug his heels.

“I do not want any part in this. I have already told you, my place is in the West with my family.” His heart rate was up, and bile was beginning to rise in his throat. Kinvara must have noticed his expression for she handed him a skin. Jon stared at it suspiciously.

“Lemon water.” She uncorked it and took a swig herself. Jon did the same and the cool liquid helped him calm his thoughts.

“I need clothes.” Jon stared pointedly at the Priestess who did not look the least bit bothered by his nudity. Kinvara frowned but grabbed a neat pile of clothes held in the corner of the tent. Jon donned the garments as quick as he could. A red tunic and black trousers soon covered his form. Jon would have preferred riding leathers, but the colors were appropriate for where he was going.

“Running from this battle will not prevent the others. This war will be a great one and you should seize power now while the opportunity is ripe.”

Jon pulled socks over his feet and then tried to tie his boots. His right hand was too numb and cumbersome to be anything else but a hinderance and eventually Kinvara tied the laces for him. He grabbed Judgement with his left hand and marched out of the tent. The daylight was so intense that he had to shut his eyes. When they finally adjusted, Jon saw Syraxes on the beach along with ten of Kinvara’s men. Their slave tattoes revealed that these men were from a variety of different trades. He saw pillow slaves, dung handlers, wheeled tattoes and even tiger stripes. They all stared at Jon and Kinvara with a multitude of different expressions.

The sun was high over the water and the heat of it felt welcome on his skin. Behind him were the grey cliffs, where he and Syraxes had first sought refuge, now they formed a natural barrier, hiding the small strip of beach from the rest of the coastland. It was the water and the horizon beyond that dominated Jon’s attention. _How long have I been sleeping?_

“For an entire day and much of this one you have been dreaming. I am surprised that you are so spirited so soon.” Jon ignored the Priestess.

 _I need a sword belt and a scabbard._ He saw a pair lying upon a pile of crates and discarded the sword in the sand before sliding Judgement into the sheath. It was not an exact fit. Judgement was longer and thinner than the other blade and his sword rattled in the scabbard with each step that Jon took but at least he would not have to hold bare steel all the way to Westeros.

Syraxes stirred as Jon approached. The spears and arrows had been burnt away or removed but there were still numerous red craters that formed gaps in her skin of silver scales. She lay half submerged in the surf and sea foam was flung into the air as she rose from the mud. Battle scared as she was, Syraxes still looked eager to fly.

“Thank you Kinvara for saving my life but I am not who you are looking for. I am not even sure that he exists.”

Kinvara pursed her lips. “You would leave when there are so many enemies here who have wronged you? Who have wished for your death or worse fates? Flying across the world will not make them disappear.”

Jon’s sword hand was beginning to throb. Whatever medication the Priestess had given, its effects were beginning to wear off. “What would you have me do? Burn Maelyx, Benerro, the triarchy and senate? Turn the city to ashes just so I can have my vengeance?” He spat. “Maelyx and all who aided him are monsters, but I would be no better if I were to sanction the bloodshed that you so desire.”

Kinvara’s flame tattoos looked pink in the sunlight and while the High Priest’s markings gave him a perpetually fearsome expression, hers seemed to only enhance her beauty. “Blood is shed every day. From when a woman labors to give birth, to when a child skins her knee, and to when a warrior falls in battle. It is meant to be the currency that we exchange in order to live our lives before we pass to the void. Yet the ruling powers of Volantis and those that rule much of this continent have corrupted this exchange. Benerro believes that the lives of our followers can be changed if this Daelyx is at the helm of the system, but I say the entire system is corrupt and must be burned so the world can begin anew. Only you have the power to do so but I can help guide you and align the faithful with their rightful champion.”

Jon thought of the boy in the burning building, of the mother and her baby turned to ashes and his stomach rolled. “I owe you much for saving my life but this I cannot do.” Jon gripped the rope still looped around Syraxes’s horn. “Freeing Syraxes and burning the siege weapons were the result of your efforts?”

Kinvara nodded. “The truly faithful answered and did all that they could to ensure your freedom.”

“I don’t know what is to follow but I imagine those efforts will not go unpunished.”

“They will try to silence this one. It will not be as easy as they think.” Kinvara said with a smile.

Jon sighed. “I offer you a place away from Volantis. There are few followers of your faith in Westeros, but my father’s kingdom is likely a much safer place than here.”

The Red Priestess shook her head. “That will not be necessary. My work is far from finished here. I will prepare the masses for your return. Safe travels Prince Jaehaerys, we will meet again.”

It was awkward clambering onto Syraxes’s back with use of only his left hand but Jon managed the task, only just scraping the inside of his thigh on one of her spikes. Syraxes took to the air a second later and Jon struggled to wrap the rope around his waist. His bandaged hand throbbed and he tucked it into the folds of his tunic to protect it from the wind. Volantis could just be seen from their height. He thought of the children that he would never have and the life that was now barred to him. Tears stung his eyes and with no one else to see, Jon let them fall. _Elaerys, Aemon and Daenys, I will never forget you._ With a heavy heart, he bid his dragon to turn west and towards home.

 

**End Act 1**

 


	14. Gaemon 'The Glorious'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prologue of Act 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to R_TarStark, GreedofRage, and Naomi Buttelo. 
> 
> R_TarStark commissioned two wonderful pictures from Naomi which will be featured below. The first is Rhaegar, Lyanna, and Elia and the next picture is the new generation of Targaryens! Sorry Viserys, I guess you missed the meeting.
> 
> Also, R_TarStark and GreedofRage worked together to create an excellent illustration of Judgement! You guys are freaking awesome. Thanks so much. Everyone be sure to give them all the love they deserve!
> 
> Edit: I can't host the image from Greed's Devianart page so here is the link to the image of the sword: https://www.deviantart.com/multirandomness21/art/Valyrian-Sword-Judgement-766430163
> 
> Naomi's Devianart page:  
> https://www.deviantart.com/naomimakesart

 

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**120 Years Before the Conquest**

**Gaemon Targaryen**

Despite the wool lining his armor and gloves, the sealskin cloak that served as a repellent of moisture and the heat that emanated from Balerion’s scales, Gaemon still felt half frozen. He wore a wrap of thick wool to protect his face and his armored helm had been traded for a bearskin hat with flaps to protect his ears. His gloves were so thick that he could barely feel the chains of his dragon’s saddle that his fingers were wrapped around.

A rumble of displeasure vibrated throughout Balerion’s form as they were buffeted by the high winds. The headwind had slowed their return to Dragonstone significantly and if Balerion had been a younger dragon then Gaemon may have feared being blown entirely off course. Yet soon enough came the sight of pale green tendrils rising from the five great fires that his father had ordered to be constructed along the coastline of their isle. This winter had been on for three years now and the Pyromancers remained occupied ensuring that port did not freeze over entirely. Then came the howling scream of the gale wrapping itself around the Dragonmount. Above a blood moon peered through a cloud strewn sky. The light it cast was nearly swallowed by the black stone fortress that Gaemon now called home.  

He bid Balerion to land east of the Fortress which sat nestled at the base of the smoking mountain. Their dragons had begun to tunnel within the volcanic rock, forming a small chain of caverns that were miles from the isle’s port. Dyvim Tvar, Dragon Master of House Targaryen was present when the pair landed along with his son and four slaves. The tall Dragon Master was bundled in enough furs that he looked akin to some incredibly tall Ibbense. Born of a Valyrian mother and an ebon-skinned sailor from the Summer Isles, Dyvim was as well accustomed to the cold as Gaemon.  

“Dyvim, have you been here all night?” Gaemon asked as he slid clumsily from Balerion’s saddle to the wooden platform that the two slaves had pushed against the dragon’s side. He ignored the hand offered and descended the steps of the platform unaided.

“I knew that you would return no matter how late the hour, my lord.” Dyvim answered. His voice had a deep baritone.

Gaemon grinned and patted the Dragon Master’s shoulder. “For that I am grateful.” He watched the four slaves deftly move around the black and red dragon, carefully removing the saddle from Balerion’s bulk. His dragon was the youngest of their five but being a hatchling born from champion’s stock ensured that he was also the most temperamental of the lot. For Balerion, the saddle meant flight and battle and the wyrm grew agitated if it remained on him longer than necessary. It was difficult enough to unsaddle an impatient dragon let alone in the dark and without aid.

Fortunately, Dyvim ran an efficient and organized operation and was always well prepared. Dragonstone was larger than any of their properties in Valyria but a far cry from the freehold in terms of elegance. Wooden huts served as replacements for the infrastructure that his ancestors had sung from the stones more than a century ago. They did not have the coin to procure Stone singers from the Freehold and so inferior Andal builders had been made use. Stone ramps were being hewn into landscape to make the dragon caves more accessible and within a year, a nursery would be constructed should any of their eggs hatch.

“You need not linger, my lord. Balerion will be cared for and fed soon enough.” Dyvim said. Gaemon hesitated. Dyvim had been with their family for more than two decades and there was not another dragon master in all of the Freehold that Gaemon would rather have in his service but even with Dyvim’s experience, Balerion could prove unpredictable. Just over half a year ago, Balerion had taken offense to a boy who had dared to stare the dragon in the eyes. By the time the black dragon had been pulled off the child, his body had been scoured across the stones. That should not happen again. “Your noble wife implored me to ensure that you would not linger longer than necessary. Though the words that she used were less than polite.”

“Daenys grows ever more demanding the larger her belly grows.” Gaemon smiled. If his little sister had her way then he would spend the entire winter holed up in the castle with their children and father. She had protested fiercely at his departure this far into her pregnancy. He had not wanted to go himself but knew that the piracte menace would not end without a show of strength.

“Best not anger her then.” Dyvim replied. His face was a placid brown mask but his eyes betrayed his humor. The Dragon Master had been in service to their family longer than Daenys had been alive. He was well aware of the fierce temperament that his sister’s sweet face belied.

Gaemon nodded. “I see your wisdom, Dragon Master.”

“Dysim, bring the lord his mount and escort him to the castle.” Dyvim told his son. The boy rushed to follow his father’s command. He was the youngest of his father’s three children. Dyvim’s daughters had returned to the sea to crew the Summer Isles’s elegant Goldenheart ships and now only Dysim remained to learn his father’s trade.

Gaemon did not have to wait long for the ten-year-old to return with their steeds. The horses whickered nervously at the sight of Balerion but the slaves had already divested the dragon of his saddle and were now wheeling over a massive barrel of fish and sea crabs. The scent of seared fish soon filled the air. Gaemon dipped his head to Dyvim and the Dragon Master answered with bow.

“Did you kill many men today, my lord?” Dysim asked as they ascended the steep, rocky hill that led the way to the fortress.

Gaemon looked to the boy. His skin was several shades lighter than his father, though much darker than Gaemon’s own. He had curly hair of silver gold and eyes that looked golden in the light of the torch that he held. “What have you heard?”

Dysim shifted nervously under Gaemon’s gaze. “I…” He faltered and then spoke softly. “I heard that you were going to war, my lord.”

Gaemon laughed. “You heard wrong, boy. War with these Andal warlords, no matter how trivial is forbidden. To do otherwise would be treason. Do you know the punishment for treason, Dysim?”

“Death, my lord.” Dysim answered quickly. The wind tore at their cloaks as if in agreement.

Gaemon nodded. “Precisely.”

The boy grew quiet but the confusion on his face betrayed his question before he could voice it. “War implies something much greater. What we have with our neighboring Andals is a disagreement. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“Did you solve that disagreement, my lord?” Dysim asked.

“No. I doubt the Andals will ever be comfortable with our presence here. They raised quite the protest a hundred years ago when this fortress was first constructed and the presence of one of the forty so close to their homeland makes even the fiercest warlord nervous.” Dragonstone loomed in the distance. The green light that danced above the black walls made the grotesques sung into the stone come to life in the shadows. Gaemon was impressed by the boy’s wits. _Dyvim should be proud._ “Even the Andals are smart enough to realize that a direct conflict with House Targaryen and by extension the Freehold is not in their best interest. Instead, they use forces that cannot be as easily traced back to them.”

Dysim’s brow furrowed. “But if you were to question who their employers were then would it not prove their guilt?”

“It may. Most men will admit to anything under the threat of death or torture but you should never trust the word of a pirate or a sellsword, not to mention that their words aren’t worth much to begin with. The Andal who fashions himself as the Storm King could merely deny association and as far as the Freehold is concerned an order to harass merchants who make stay in our port is hardly a cause for war. “

Dysim seemed to understand. “The pirates, you killed them?”

“A few.” Gaemon answered. A man had fallen from the top of the mast to the deck when Balerion set fire to his ship’s sail. Another two who had charged Balerion with spears when they landed in the pirates’s hidden cove off the coast of Tarth were quickly dispatched. Half a dozen died when Lord Velayron’s men stormed the cove and a big fool was short a head courtesy of Blackfyre when he tried rushing Gaemon. “More survived to live and raid another day.”

“I did not expect you to be in the habit of mercy, my lord.” Dysim replied.

Gaemon scoffed. “Mercy? By Visagar, no. I reminded the pirates of the error of conspiring against my family. Those that were smart will live to repay the Storm King, his ships and ports in kind.” The Pirates commanded a not insignificant number of twenty longboats. Number enough to properly harass the storm coast until the Storm King bestirred himself to amass his own fleet. He leaned closer to Dysim. “A lesson, Dysim. Sometimes it is better not to kill your enemy. When you swing your sword with the intent to kill then you may only due so once. Instead, if your enemy perpetually fears that sword stroke then he is yours to use.”

The Pyromancers’s sorcery created a steep gradient of heat that melted snowfall in a one-hundred-foot radius surrounding the fortress. Gaemon was sweating profusely under his cloak and armor by the time they passed under the sphinx-shaped portcullis. A bleary eyed stable-hand came to deal with their horses and Gaemon bid Dysim a farewell before he made his way to the armory. A weariness descended upon him after his armor and Blackfyre had been divested. Between the preparation of a small fleet of ships with Lord Velayron, their sail to Tarth and the handling of the Pirates, Gaemon had hardly slept for the past week. Eager to retire to his bed and hold his pregnant sister-wife, Gaemon moved swiftly through the deserted courtyard to the mouth of the great Stone Drum Tower. He was surprised to see his father standing in the atrium of the tower.

At the age of three and fifty, Aenar’s hair had faded from silver-gold to grey, which he wore short. His beard was well groomed, his nose crooked from a break suffered in his youth. Lord Aenar’s eyes were a steely blue that were alert and pensive despite the hour. He wore his white sleeping robes and leaned on a cane of weirwood banded by runic steel rings.

“Father?” Gaemon questioned. Lord Aenar had never been a man of great cheer but now his displeasure was plain upon his face. _That is not true. Father used to smile often when mother was still alive._ “Is something amiss?”

“Walk with me. We can discuss this in my solar.”

“Daenys?” Gaemon questioned. A touch of fear gripped his heart.

Aenar’s face softened momentarily and he shook his head. “She is sleeping. Aegon is with her and I think it best to not trouble her until the morning.” Lord Aenar moved quickly despite his cane. The handicap was the result of a barbed arrow that had severely torn the muscles in his father’s thigh. In the Freehold, there were more than a few sorcerers capable of healing his father’s leg entirely but none would make the journey to this backwater and his father had forbidden Gaemon and Daenys from traveling any further east than Pentos.

They walked in silence up a narrow flight of spiraling steps, down the gallery, through a tunnel that spanned the inner wall and across a grooved arched stone bridge that spanned a fifty foot gorge to the Sea Wyrm Tower. No longer able to duel, Lord Aenar frequently walked all corners of the Fortress in defiance of a more sedentary lifestyle. Daenys had been unsuccessful in convincing their father to move his solar closer to the ground level. Instead, it sat on the eighth floor of the wyrm shaped tower.

The spiraling stair presented a challenge to Aenar as his left leg was significantly less stable than his right. Gaemon’s offer of assistance rewarded him with a not so gentle jab from his father’s cane. “Stubborn old man.”

“This old man remains undefeated. Do not think this leg of mine has made me a cripple entirely, if need be I can still humble my son in the training yard.” Aenar boasted.

Gaemon shook his head. “It is a shame that the arrow did not take some of your pride. We both know that you have enough for us both.” The words drew a grunt from his father which may have been a laugh or a grunt of exertion. Eventually, they made it to his father’s solar. While Aenar collapsed into his chair with as much grace as he could muster, Gaemon poured forth two tall cups of wine. He handed his father a cup from which the lord drank deeply. Gaemon himself sipped from the glass and savored the taste of Arbor Gold. _At least, these savages can produce quality wine._

Lord Aenar was a prolific collector and an even more prolific reader. His solar reflected his tastes. Bookshelves filled with heavy tomes and scrolls sealed in leather sheaths lined the walls. There was a set of armor from the lands of Yi Ti in one corner, a large golden, silver-stringed harp in an another and a heavy Myrish mirror that had belonged to Gaemon’s mother leaned against the wall. On a desk in the far corner sat an obsidian candle. It was a tall, spiral rod of sharp, dark-green onyx with white Valyrian runes that ran down its length. They shimmered in the candle light. In Valyria, elaborate tapestries and paintings had lined the walls of their family’s library. Much of their collection had been auctioned and sold along with their properties in order to settle their debts and fund their relocation to Dragonstone. Now, only a painting of Gaemon’s mother served as the solar’s adornment.

It had been commissioned during his mother’s youth and the woman that stared back at Gaemon was of an age with him. Her lips were colored dark and curved in a smirk that held secrets. Dark Sister hung from her hip, the ruby encased in its pommel was polished to a gleam. She wore a dress of black scale while an azure cape flowed from her shoulders. On her head sat a circlet of dragonsteel which marked her a champion of the great games. Pale flame danced eternally between the fingers of her left hand, palm cupped upwards. Daenys owed much of her beauty to their mother though their mother’s albinism was evident by her shoulder length bone white hair and eyes the color of freshly spilled blood.

Gaemon was seated across from his father and noted the look of longing when his father glanced at the portrait of his late wife. Lady Elaena had been six years their father’s elder; a cousin promised to marry her brother. Their union had caused a great scandal in their family but now their extended family, save for distant cousins who neither bore their family name nor their dragons, were gone. With exception of Gaemon’s great uncle, Aelyx, who belonged to the order of the Fire Mages, the entirety of House Targaryen’s legacy, history and destiny layed within this bleak fortress.

“Tell me that you were discreet in the handling of the Pirates?” Aenar’s sharp eyes bored into Gaemon. As a boy, he would have squirmed under the gaze but Gaemon had long learned to answer his father’s inquiries with strength.

“I am no fool, father. I am well aware of the risks and other than the Pirates and Lord Velayron’s men no one has knowledge that we were present in the Stormlands.” A night time raid, a black dragon… the nearby village would whisper tales but nothing would come of the rumors. Of that, Gaemon was sure.

Aenar’s jaw shifted. He swirled the wine in his glass. “It may have been a mistake to use Balerion beyond our waters.”

“If Balerion had not been present the amount of men that needed to be raised in order to deal with this pirate nuisance would have started a war.” The pirate cove had been well defended, the men martial enough to present a challenge and a fleet of the size needed to carry enough men to subdue the pirates without a dragon as an escort would not have as easy of a time escaping Storm’s End’s notice.

“And the pirates? What assurances do you have that they will act in terms of our will? Durradon bought them once, why can they not be bought once again?”  

Gaemon met his father’s gaze. “Raid or starve, obey the dragon or be burned, the pirates are well aware of their options and the consequences of making the wrong choice. As for assurances other than the fear of god, well… the pirates were led by two brothers and once I made our demands and expectations clear, the pair was given knives to demonstrate their loyalty. Rest assured, the surviving brother and his men understand our position clearly.” Gaemon did have to respect Durradon’s ingenuity. Weakening your enemies by methods of proxy not easily traced to yourself was a chief principle in a dragonlord’s playbook. A motive behind the piracy would have been difficult to detect as so the exact location of the pirate’s base if were not for Daenys’s considerable talent in the art of scrying by way of the obsidian candles.  

The words did not seem to placate Aenar’s concerns as Gaemon had hoped. His father’s scowl did not lessen, and eyes turned pensive.

“What is the matter, father? You have never been one to shy away from conflict.” Gaemon questioned.

Aenar’s answer was fiercer than Gaemon had expected. “I will shy away from any conflict that draws the ire of the Senate.” The Lord of Dragonstone dipped his head as he massaged his temples.

Gaemon frowned. His father’s discomfort was troubling. “Surely any on the Senate would understand that we are merely defending ourselves. This isle remains the western most outpost of the Freehold, so regardless of their concerns we are still in the right by defending the interests of our homeland.”

“If only it were so simple.” Aenar stood and walked to the large western facing window. A storm still raged beyond their walls. He stared a hundred miles in the distance as he spoke. “Every hundred years or so there is a group of upstart Princes that advocate the return for the days of conquest. This fortress is a result of such a movement. Dragonstone was meant to be a staging ground for the great western invasion. Your great grandfather was one of the chief architects of the planning before the entire notion was swiftly abandoned.”

A return to the near mythical time of conquest was often a dream held by the youngest of the Dragon Princes and Princesses. In those days, Valyria was ruled by divination, powerful sorcery and a devotion to the Fourteen Great Old Ones. An ambitious house could gain holdings as large as a kingdom, riches beyond compare and most importantly power enough to make their rivals tremble. When their move to Dragonstone had been announced, Gaemon had hoped it was the first step in his father’s plan to regain their family’s prominence and perhaps propel them further than they had ever been before. Instead, all of Valyria saw their move as an act of absolute cowardice. Friends that Gaemon had known all his life, spat at his feet rather than wish him farewell. For Daenys it had been easier, she had been too young to fully experience the reality of court but to Gaemon, the sudden derision by his peers was a wound that still festered.

“I had to make my case before a conclave of senators that our intentions were exactly opposite of conquest. A blood oath was demanded, and the price of breaking said oath is death to not just to me but to all of us.” Aenar turned to his son as he spoke, his eyes were full of an emotion that Gaemon could not identify. “Understand this Gaemon, if the Senate concludes that we have overstepped the bounds of our agreement then they will kill Daenys and the children as well.”

Gaemon’s jaw clenched. “Surely they cannot be so rash. An extermination of one of the forty without just cause would do to more to destabilize the Freehold than any involvement we would have on this continent.”

Aenar paced the room. “Would it? Perhaps the traditionalists would protest on our behalf, but we would be long dead for their sermons to have any impact. Westeros represents opportunity, wealth and _change._ I am sure a wealth of second sons would enjoy making a name for themselves in a conquest that would barely last a summer, but it is what comes after said conquest that the Senate fears. Realistically what empire can span an ocean? If the other houses truly understood how trivial it would be taking these lands that the Andals stole, there might be a civil war for the rights to conquer...”

Gaemon understood the point his father was making. “Destroying us would make clear the hardline stance of Senate.”

“Precisely. Charging our family with _grievous_ crime of being too ambitious to the point of recklessness would be something the state’s lawmen would argue. And the beauty of it is that it speaks nothing of the prophecy.”

 _The prophecy._ The word resounded in Gaemon’s head. Every child of the forty knew _of_ it though none could claim knowledge of the exact wording nor who foretold it or even when. Yet it was spoken… no _whispered_ that the true reason for the ruling Senate’s refusal to consider settling in the lands of the Sunset was due to said prophecy. A prophecy that spoke of Doom coming to their empire from the gold of the west. In the days of the old, when Old Ghis still breathed, every great battle had been planned by masters of strategy and those strong in the gift of foresight. It had been necessary then when the dragons were not as numerous but when the enemies of the Freehold were virtually vanquished, the gift was often used in the conflicts between Dragonlords. The practice of Farsight had been formally outlawed, and its teachings banned but it was difficult to enforce such a ruling when the gift skipped randomly through the generations. To suggest that the Senate was at its core hypocritical for its adherence to such a prophecy and yet they doled out severe punishments for any who dared a glimpse of times yet to be concluded was heretical.

“Then, we will be even more cautious, father. The Velayrons can serve as a proxy for any of our more sensitive dealings with the Andals. Lord Velayron and his sons are men that can be trusted.” In fact, Lord Velayron reminded Gaemon very much of his father. Thoughtful yet not too timid to seize opportunity when need be.

Lord Aenar sighed heavily. “I fear it is too late for our actions to have entirely escaped their notice. They are sending a Primarch.”

Gaemon’s breath hitched. _A Primarch, here?!_ “When did you learn of their coming? And what time table do we have to prepare?” The legendary warriors of the State. As exalted as they were secretive. Powerful in sorcery and even rumored to be products of the flesh forges themselves. His dislike of the situation grew even fiercer.

“Tonight. By way of the candle and by prepare, I do hope you mean prepare a feast. Any signs of preparations for a resistance would give the Primarch the pretext needed to destroy us all. We will play the grateful hosts of such an esteemed dignitary of the Freehold that has decided to pay us a visit. We will refuse him nothing. You will not draw Blackfyre unless the Primarch specifically requests a duel. Do you understand?” The steel in Aenar’s gaze grew overwhelming.

“Yes, father.” A sickening thought came upon him. “House Artaris could be behind this fiasco.” Technically all of the forty were their rivals but if Gaemon could chose to destroy any House root and stem then it would be none other than Artaris. _Mother…_ He pushed the thought away.

Aenar shrugged. “I would not put it past them to try it though I doubt Garaelyx has the influence needed to sway a Primarch. This order comes from somewhere or someone much more powerful.”

His father laid a hand on Gaemon’s shoulder. “I need not remind you to do everything in your power to obscure your sister’s ability while the Primarch is present. We will go as far as exchanging her servants with Driftmark’s while the Primarch is present. For her safety, he cannot learn of her dreams.”

Gaemon nodded. Daenys had only been nine when her nightmares first started. He could only hold his sister and worry when she inevitably came to his bed in tears. The dreams were intense enough that Daenys slept next to him every night years before they were wed. Far away from the magic that emanated from the Fourteen Flames, Daenys’s terrible dreams had lessened in frequency and coherence, but she was undoubtedly a Farseer. And a powerful one at that.  Primarch or not, Blackfyre would bathe in the blood of anyone who tried to take his little sister.

“I know what you are thinking. Abandon those thoughts, Gaemon. The Primarch will travel here and find nothing. He may threaten us but will have no cause to act. “ His father’s voice reduced in volume so that he spoke just above a whisper. “Their time of reckoning is coming, my son. Rest assured our family will endure.”  There was a hint of a smile on his father’s face. The briefest flash of emotion, and the meaning behind it made Gaemon shiver.

Their talk continued until Gaemon could scarcely keep his eyes open. Tendrils of sunlight filtered through the curtains of his bedchamber when he finally entered. Gaemon checked upon his son whose crib had been moved from the nursery to beside their bed. Aegon slept peacefully, innocent and unaware of the dangers of the coming days. He kissed the toddler’s forehead.

Daenys stirred as he slid into bed behind her. She wore a thin silken sleeping robe that felt wonderous against his bare skin. “Gaemon?” She questioned. Her voice was heavy with sleep. He curled closer still so that his chest was flush with her back and his arm went under her pillow. The other hand he lay on her rounded belly.

“Ssh, go back to sleep little one.” His sister was tiny, barely five feet three inches tall and slender still despite nearly nine months of pregnancy.

Daenys squirmed to face him. “You were out all night.” He could see her worry even with his eyes closed. Her hands roved across his chest and abdomen to check for new wounds.

“Neither sword nor arrow touched me, little sister.” Gaemon gently grabbed her wrist and kissed her fingertips. “Father and I merely got carried away with our discussion and lost the time.”

“Father stayed awake this late as well?” If he were not so tired then Gaemon would have laughed at the sudden motherly tone that inhabited his sister’s voice. For so long, it had been just the three of them and Daenys had taken it upon herself to become the matriarch of their family. “Is something wrong?”

Gaemon knew that he needed to tell her but he did not want her to worry this early. He pulled her closer and claimed her lips. They parted for his tongue. “Sleep with me.” He pleaded. And they did.

The intervening months provided the most eventful period on the isles since their move. Daenys gave birth to their beautiful daughter as she had foreseen. They named her Elaena after their late mother. Gaemon and Aenar flew frequently between Driftmark and Cracklaw Point. Both Velyraon and Celtigar were merchant born and founded their houses sometime before the planned western campaign had been abandoned. As fellow kinsmen of Valyria, they were the only of their neighbors to truly welcome House Targaryen with open arms. House Velayron even possessed Targaryen blood.

By the time the third moon had passed since word came of the Primarch’s impending arrival, winter had come to an abrupt end. Such a sudden shift in weather, from cold storms to warm, sunny days perplexed even their pyromancers who were skilled in predicting the weather and changing of the seasons. _Can a Primarch control the weather?_ Gaemon wondered.

The entire household gathered to greet the Primarch at port. Lord Velayron, his lady wife and three sons were dressed in grey and seagreen. Lord Celtigar and his daughters were clad in bright pink and yellow with crimson crabs embroidered upon their sleeves. Gaemon found the latter family’s style choice garish but their fashion was in tune with the latest garb worn by nobility in Pentos.

Fifty warriors of the three houses lined the streets leading from the docks. Their helms were polished to a sheen and white ribbons hung below the tip of their spears. A sign of peace. Each warrior held a crescent shield and was clad either in scale or chainmail with slanting conical helms. The streets of the village extending from the docks had been swept clean and the stones polished. Their smallfolk had taken care to wear their finest garments and the island’s bathhouse had seen great business in the week leading up to this day.

For the servants and slaves that had followed them west, they understood the necessity of the preparations. For the Andal born, many faces were confused yet clearly impressed by the ceremony.

Gaemon watched this all from a steep knoll that was just beyond the village. Beside him stood his father and sister-wife. Dark circles gathered under Lord Aenar’s eyes and Gaemon knew that his father endured another night without rest. In contrast, Daenys looked more beautiful than ever. Her wide, tourmaline colored eyes were filled with determination. Atop her silver hair sat a crystal spider-webbed hairnet from where a single gemstone of amethyst hung, carved into a shape of tear drop and resting upon forehead. Daenys was skilled in neither sword, nor spear, nor bow, yet she wore an ornate armored dress of black scale. The collar ran high on her slim neck and the shoulder plates ended in a point. An azure cloak hung from iron forged dragon head clasps pinned to each shoulder.

Both Gaemon and Aenar were dressed in armor as well. Blackfyre hung from Gaemon’s hip while the slim blade of Dark Sister sat on his father’s sword belt, the ruby embedded in its flame shaped pommel glimmered. Since the birth of Valyria, dragons had been their nation’s greatest weapon and at times it’s last line of defense. For the privileged few who held mastery over the beasts that had built their civilization, the capability to defend said nation when called upon was a duty absolutely expected. Old or young, male or female, it did not matter. A dragon was the living embodiment of fire and so should its rider be.

Dyvim and Dysim had stirred all five of their dragons and the scales of the majestic beasts cast a multitude of colors in the light of the warm spring sun. Dyvim and his son wore ornate red robes trimmed with black. Golden scroll work lined their sleeves. The pyromancers gathered just beyond the Dragon Master and his son in hooded dark robes.

Lord Aenar lifted the Myrish spyglass to his eye and gazed out over the bay. His breath hitched. “That is an Imrryin battleship.” Gaemon’s eyes widened. “Truly?” He asked his father.

Aenar passed the spyglass to his son. Sure enough, Gaemon could see that his father was correct. A massive ship with an onyx hull and bright crimson sails powered through the waters. Three of Lord Velayron’s ships had positioned themselves to escort the ornate ship and the fifty oar war galleys were absolutely dwarfed. Imrryr the Dreaming City, sister to the capital of Valyria and the rumored birth place of Valyria’s navy. Where politics and its undercurrent of schemes and betrayal defined life in the capital, the elites of Imrryr styled themselves as philosophers, those who studied the songs of the earth, the songs of the water, and the song of ice and of fire. Named the dreaming city in derision by the Dragonlords for the Imrryns feasted upon drugs that left them in waking dreamlike states. Their claim was that the mind was at its most creative state when one dreamed. And on occasion, the dreaming men could produce wonders beyond what the world had ever known.

The wind was not entirely at the ships back and the Velayron vessels propelled themselves with oars. Gaemon could discern no oar holes on the black vessel’s sleek sides and yet the ship moved at speed with its escort. Raenar, their chief alchemist must have heard Lord Aenar’s exclaim for the pyromancer rushed to Gaemon’s side with the eagerness of a small child. “My lord, may I have a glance.” Gaemon gave the alchemist the spyglass.

“Truly beautiful.” Raenar exclaimed. “I never had the chance to see the ships until now. Do you see that column of steam rising from the vessel?” He pointed and then answered without waiting for a response. “The ships are powered by _the substance_ , what many call wildfire, they can travel longer and faster than any other ship and can even operate without the wind.” Gaemon grabbed the spyglass and once again scanned the vessel. Gargoyles, sphinxes, manticores and other grotesques were carved into the vessel’s hull. Affixed to the prow of the vessel was battering ram shaped into a gaping dragon’s maw. On the deck of the ship, he spied several scorpions, catapults and ranks of men clutching dragonbone longbows. He lowered the spyglass and grimaced.

Daenys squeezed his hand. A look of worry was on her face. “This Primarch has clearly spared no expense. Should we be worried?”

Gaemon shook his head. “He is meaning to intimidate us, nothing more.” In initial meetings between dragonlords it was customary to make open displays of your power and wealth. Your warriors, slaves and most importantly dragons were meant to be showcased. A dragonlord who did not adhere to this custom was either dismissing one as a threat entirely or thought to be obscuring the force he meant to use against one at a later date. _Yet this force is far more than I thought he would bring. How can a single man wield so much power?_ That single Imrryn ship was worth more than their entire castle.

There came a sudden thunderous cry from the sky and then their dragons were roaring their answer. Gaemon grabbed his sister and kissed her forehead. “We will be fine.” He tweaked her nose. “Stay behind me."

Daenys’s lips thinned in annoyance. “You have the smallest dragon. If anyone should greet the Primarch first, it should be me.”

Gaemon cocked a brow. “Oh, and what games have you and your dragon won?” Daenys flushed and then grudgingly accepted his logic. Balerion may have been the youngest of their dragons but he was of an impeccable breed and the only of their dragons to have won in the great games. His egg alone had cost their family a fortune.

“Mount now you two. Gaemon, you take point.” Aenar ordered. Flamefang lowered its belly to the floor so Lord Aenar could take his place in its saddle. Dysim rushed to help strap in the Lord of Dragonstone into the saddle. Dyvim helped Daenys assume her seat on Starwind while Gaemon mounted Balerion unaided. Lord Aenar and Daenys sat on the crest of their dragon’s back where the bones of the wing met the body, it was the most stable and well protected region on a dragon. Gaemon sat just behind the crown of Balerion’s horns on the base of the dragon’s skull. From here he would have the most control of his beast and a nearly unobscured vision of what lay below though at the cost of a much greater exposure.

Gaemon unfurled his spiked whip from his belt and snapped it in the air. “Soves!” He commanded. Eager to meet the new challenger, Balerion rose from the ground with a single snap of his wings. The black dragon was fifteen years old and proving to have an incredible growth rate. Balerion was more than forty-five feet long from nose to tail. The other four dragons were far larger and compared to Balerion’s sudden flight they all but lumbered into the air.

The thunder of dragons moved with great speed towards the onyx battleship. From the clouds, two dragons came to meet them. Gaemon pulled hard on Balerion’s reins and his dragon abandoned its challenging rise towards the two dragons. Balerion was absolutely fearless but it also meant his dragon lacked good sense. The green dragon was of a size with Balerion with a rider in brilliant red armor on its back, but the other dragon was something else entirely. _It must be well older than two centuries._ Gaemon thought with some dismay. Flamefang, Morghul and Starwind were all over a century and a half and yet the three old dragons were dwarfed by the Primarch’s monstrosity. Serrated steel plate littered with glowing Valyrian scroll work covered the dragon’s back and underbelly. Hexagonal layered plating protected the beast’s long neck and led to a spiked great helm that protected a head large enough to swallow a whale. Each flap of the dragon’s wings created a sound akin to an approaching hurricane. Great shafts of light spilled from the dragon’s massive blue wings. He could feel the power of each wing stroke reverberate through his bones.

 _Now I understand. If this Primarch should find any cause to destroy our house he need not return to Essos for reinforcements, he could do so now._ Indeed, the Primarch’s beast was so large that it could snap Balerion in half with a single bite. Gaemon played out the scenario in his head. Flamefang was the largest and eldest of their dragons but far past its prime and half blind to the boot. If the dragon could last long enough to grapple the Primarch’s dragon then perhaps Daenys and Starwind could drag the beast into the sea. Dragons by convention were excellent swimmers but the armor the dragon wore must weigh several tons. Balerion would need to engage the smaller green dragon. Gaemon was sure in his dragon’s prowess but was doubtful that he or Balerion would survive the conflict.  With luck their two rider-less dragons could return to Dragonstone unscathed… _There is still the question of that ship. Could Velayron’s men resist them? Would they even fight if only my children remained?_

With great hesitation, Gaemon bid Balerion to match the Primarch’s altitude. The Primarch was seated just behind the crown of his dragon’s six fourteen feet long black horns. A saddle of dark leather provided a seat above the metal of his dragon’s helm. It was hard to discern the size of the man, so dwarfed was he by his mount. Balerion had to maintain a considerable distance so as not to be buffeted by the turbulence created from the massive dragon’s wings.  The Primarch lifted his arm and made a fist. _It is time to land._

Balerion moved to the front of the thunder and they made a gradual descent towards the Dragonmont.  He bid his dragon to land atop a crag that overlooked the basin from where their dragons had begun to hollow out a cave system in the mountain side. The green dragon landed next, so close to Balerion that the black dragon snapped at its wings. The green dragon answered with a tongue of bright flame. Before the fight could escalate, Gaemon snapped his whip and pulled Balerion’s reins. The rider of the green dragon needed no such crude methods, a hidden brand suddenly glowed upon the green dragon’s chest and between its horns. The dragon roared its fury but obeyed its rider’s wordless command and stilled. Scarlet eyes stared at Balerion with hate.

The earth shook with the landing of the other five. Flamefang and Starwind landed just below Balerion while their riderless dragons landed at the edge of the basin.  A wide berth was given for the Primarch’s dragon, for on the ground the beast looked even more formidable.

Only the richest of families could afford to armor a dragon, let alone one of that one’s size. Dragonfire burned so hot that most steel would melt in combat between two dragons of age for war. Only steel worked with specific spells by the finest smiths the world had to offer would suffice. So much raw material and craftsmanship were needed that the expense was almost unjustifiable, unless one meant to make a spectacle of their wealth and power. And _what a spectacle it is._ The steel was an ashen black with a blue sheen. Spikes as long as Gaemon’s arm jutted from the beast’s neck, discouraging any attacker from exploiting one of the few vulnerabilities of a dragon. The beast’s white tail slapped against the cliff face. A hail of stone and dirt followed. It was near three hundred feet long, tip to tail, as large as a floating glacier in the Shivering Sea.

The dragon released a breath of steam and turned its long neck to stare down at all the lesser beasts gathered around it. Flamefang, Silverwind and their riderless dragons bowed in submission. Balerion hissed and its blood red spines bristled. Gaemon tensed and laid a hand on Balerion’s horn. “No Balerion.” The dragon growled but finally bowed its head as well. Now satisfied, the great beast lowered its head for its rider. Gaemon dismounted and met the green dragon’s rider first.

 The dragonlord’s crimson armor gleamed in the sunlight. A white and golden sash was tied around her waist, a grey cloak fluttered from behind her back. The helm that she wore had bat like ears that protruded from either side and two slits were carved into its slanted face. They met between their looming dragons. Gaemon could see the green beast’s dagger like tail snap in distaste.

“You have an irritable beast.” The dragonlord stated. She pulled off her helm. Her eyes were a bright jade, her hair silver-gold with the sides of her head shaved bald. Runes were tattooed on the sides of her head and her braid was beaded with black amethysts.

“I could say the same.” Gaemon answered. Casual apology was a sign of weakness amongst dragonlords.

His words drew a faint smile to the woman’s lips. They bowed their heads in a sign of mutual respect. “I am Faora of House Belaerys.” Gaemon nodded. House Belaerys was one of the most powerful and of the most renowned houses in the Freehold.

“I dueled your relative Aelor in the games.” He and Balerion had _destroyed_ Aelor in the games. Few events in his life had filled Gaemon with as much pride as seeing a member of such an exalted house brought low. To Belaerys, a house such as Targaryen were little better than the merchant lords.

“He is a cousin of distant relation.” Faora replied. Her jade colored eyes roved over Gaemon, they lingered for a moment on Blackfyre.

“The spoils of my victory. Named after the color of my dragon’s flame.” He did not dare lay a hand on the hilt, less the move be interpreted as a threat.

“Creative.” Faora said dryly. Gaemon frowned. “Come, the Primarch awaits.” They walked down the steep twisting stairs carved into the rock to reach the basin.  High walls of bare rock rose on either side of the stair, briefly obscuring his vision. Gaemon misliked what he saw when the basin came back into view.

The great armored beast still loomed over his sister and father who had dismounted from their dragons. Daenys stood close to Lord Aenar’s left side so their father would not need to lean on his cane. Opposite of them stood a warrior in black armor. Even from a distance, Gaemon could see the characteristic ripples of Dragonsteel. It seemed to drink in the light that touched it. Golden red glyphs were in laid into the surface of the steel. Serpents, sphinxes, griffins, wyrms, krakens and dragons danced with every movement. Arcane runes were folded into the plate, dormant now but the sight of them held the promise of terrible power.  The armor seemed molded to the Primarch’s form as if the man had grown a second layer of metallic skin. What a large form it was, for the Primarch stood over seven feet tall. Dragon wings jutted from his helm and atop it sat a black dragon coiled to strike. His pauldrons were spiked. A scarlet and plum sash was tied around his waist, the same colored cloak was pinned to his shoulder and a dragonbone hilted sword was strapped across his back.

“Gaemon the Glorious!” His helm warped his voice, deepening it into a raspy growl that seemed to add power to each syllable of his words. “Champion of the three hundred and second great game. The hope and promise of his house which has fallen into such destitution. How it must wound you to waste your best years in this backwater.”

Gaemon moved to the other side of his father, opposite of Daenys. He watched as Faora took her place beside the Primarch. The smile on his face was forced. “Not at all, Primarch. Admittedly, I thought my father had lost his sense when his decision was made clear to my sister and me but we find our time here has been a welcome reprieve from the chaos at court.”

Faora flashed her teeth. It may have been a smile but with the great dragon looming behind them, Gaemon considered every action these two made a thinly veiled threat. “It is peaceful here, you would say?” The dragonlord asked.

It was Daenys who answered. “Yes. Do you not smell how clear the air is here? Many would find it too rustic but I believe this is the perfect location to raise our children.”

“The clear air I do not doubt but peace?” The Primarch boomed. “We have heard otherwise. It would be best for us all if you spoke with honesty.”

“The protest of the Andal warlords and a few pirate attacks are hardly of note. Other than a few minor incidents, our days here have been peaceful.” Lord Aenar spoke. His face was a placid mask that betrayed no emotion.

The eyes inside the helm glared at Lord Aenar. “How long should that peace last I wonder?” His head turned to face Gaemon. “You do not seem the type of man to be content with…” The Primarch knelt and dirt slipped between his armored fingers. “Dirt and little else.”

Gaemon shrugged, noncommittal. “My loyalty to the Freehold and respect of the Senate’s decrees transcends any ambition I may or may not harbor. The same can be said of my wife and most of all my father. We are well aware of the boundaries that the Senate has set, and you will find that we have abided by their decrees to the letter.”

Only once Dyvim, their slaves and a group that journeyed with the Primarch began to see to their dragons and the two visiting dragonlords had been offered rights of hospitality, did the Primarch remove his helm. His flesh was the color of bleached bone. The Primarch’s eyes were glowing bloodstones with vertical cat-like pupils. A curtain of moonlight spilled past his ear, tracing a strong, square jaw. He had all the malevolent beauty that those overflowing with dragonblood often possessed.” Gaemon was surprised at just how young he was, he could not have been older than five and thirty. “Show us this home you have made in the land of the Andals and we shall judge whether you have truly abided by the Senate’s wishes.” He looked to Daenys then and Gaemon misliked how the Primarch stared at his sister. “Lady Targaryen, you may lead the way.”

Daenys moved without pause to the side of the Primarch. Their difference in height was almost comical. “Of course, Primarch. Right this way please.” Dyvim had ensured a group of horses were ready well in advanced of the Primarch’s arrival.

“Please call me Aurion. We all will be becoming much better acquainted in these coming days. I believe it is appropriate.”

Their ride to the castle was not without Aurion’s banter. “So, tell me, Gaemon I presume, in your dealings with these pirates have you encountered the men who can wear other’s skins?” Seeing Gaemon’s confused look, Aurion continued. “Surely you know of the children’s stories. Of the men who can all upon the beasts of the woods to fight for them and the demon trees that demand their sacrifices? Of the Greenseers who live for a thousand years and can make a man tear out his eyes with a single look?”

“Other than Andals who bathe as often as the beasts in the woods and whose smell can make a man want to tear his nose out, no I have not. “

Aurion seemed amused. “It is shame. Though perhaps we are too far south. The tales grow queerer, the further North one travels.”

“You mean the Starks.” Came Aenar’s voice. Gaemon knew that his father misliked riding horses for the ride often upset his leg. If Lord Aenar was in pain, he hid it well.

“Have you come upon any of them?” Faora asked.

“No, their kingdom is more than a thousand miles North of here.” Daenys spoke. His little wife was still too close to Primarch Aurion for Gaemon to truly be comfortable. Faora rode next to Aenar while Gaemon brought up the rear.

“That is truly a shame.” Aurion answered. The Andals mad, mass exodus to the lands of Sunset after their disastrous wars with the Rhoynar was taught to every student of Valyria. And all knew of the Winter Kings, who had alone countered their conquests.

Daenys had arranged a feast that had cost them a fortune. While these lands in the west were teaming with fresh game: a wide selection of fish, sea crabs, and aurochs, their distance from the main shipping lines of the Jade Sea meant that a steep premium was placed almost all spices that were common place in their homeland. Imports from Dorne made up for the spices that they could either not acquire but ensuring that the Primarch did not take offense to bland meals had put a sizable dent in their coffers. Lord Celtigar, a man born of enterprising merchants immediately noticed the extravagance of the meal as evidenced by the surprised look he sent Lord Aenar’s way.

Lords Velayron and Celtigar knew little of what to make of the two new dragonlords. In the Freehold, it was not uncommon for merchant lords to hold audience with sorcerer princes and dragonlords for in Valyria’s transition to its long reigning peace, trade had become the new conquest. Yet still, the Lords understood the privilege of being in such distinguished company and they and their families did their bests to pay the visitors the proper respect. _They are practically groveling._ Gaemon observed. Not that he blamed them. For all the apprehension that his family shared it was likely nothing in comparison to what these minor lords felt. It was frowned upon though not unheard of, for merchants who displeased their patron dragonlords to disappear without a trace.

For all the courtesies Velayron and Celtigar heaped on the dragonlords, the two barely seemed to acknowledge them.  Gaemon noted the attention Faora devoted to him. Her sharp green eyes seemed to study his every movement as if by looking, yet barely speaking she could discern everything there was to know about him. To his dismay, Aurion seemed entirely focused upon Daenys. His sister-wife handled the Primarch’s inquisition with grace but Gaemon could see the strain his questions put upon her. Daenys’s dreams had made it difficult for her to connect with others and his sister-wife was truly only comfortable conversing with Gaemon and their father. The Primarch’s looming figure and piercing eyes certainly did not help.

“I have heard a rather interesting rumor about you, Lady Targaryen.” Aurion said.

Daenys smiled uneasily. “I would love to hear what you have heard, Primarch.”

Aurion’s returning smile was anything but reassuring. “Schooling was quite difficult for you. Difficult enough that your father removed you from your studies and you never returned. What was the reason I wonder?”

Gaemon stiffened and he felt a rush of anger. Lord Aenar stepped on his foot before he could speak. “I am sure you are well aware of our family’s history, Primarch Aurion. My daughter was quite young, and the trauma of the situation was too much for her at the time. Private tutoring was more appropriate.”

Aurion threaded his long fingers. The two visiting dragonlords had seen fit to remove their armor for the feast and Aurion wore fine emerald robes with black embroidery and a golden sash while Faora was clad in a striking blue dress that showcased her athletic form. Despite his height, Aurion was built as thick as a castle wall. His stomach was flat and each movement he made seemed to carry a savage sort of grace.

“Losing a parent so young and in such a violent fashion can certainly be quite traumatic and yet Gaemon has seemed to adjust so well.”

“I am six years Daenys’s elder. My father and sister needed my strength and so I rose to the occasion, but I do not fault my sister for needing us in a time of crisis.” He made an effort to keep his tone level. _What is his point?_

“Certainly, I am in agreement, though there was a rather curious nickname bestowed upon Lady Targaryen by her peers. _The Dreamer._ I believe. Yet you were certainly too young to ingest the drugs of Imrryr. What prompted such a moniker?”

“Night terrors.” Lord Aenar spoke. “Fierce ones. Can you blame a young child who lost her mother?” His well-tempered mask briefly slipped, and the old lord’s irritation was made plain.

The rest of their long table seemed to freeze. Velayron and Celtigars waited with bated breath. In addition to the lords, the warriors who had traveled with the Primarch were present. Noticing the lapse in conversation at the main table, conversation at the other tables withered until the Great Hall was as silent as a grave.

Aurion stroked his knuckles. The Primarch looked as amused as feline who had caught its prey and was now in the process of dismembering it. “There is no need for hostility, Lord Aenar. I am merely trying to wrap my head around the reasoning for your drastic exodus. A man practically begs the senate to upsell him a forgotten fortress in west, sells his entire estate, uproots his family’s entire lives and moves to a backwater thousands of miles away from anything that matters, endures the ridicule of his peers and quite possibly ruins the reputation of his family… for what? Let us speak honestly, the move reeks of cowardice and if it were normal men then I would disregard all of you as cowards as the rest of court has done. Yet, we are not normal men. We are dragonkin. The need and ability to dominate is baked in our blood. One would think you had forgotten this but that was proven the contrary in how you welcomed us to your little isle. Our traditions still ring true in your family. So now I must wonder, if it is not cowardice that drives your motives then what is it?”

Aenar’s jaw shifted. “Primarch-“

Aurion made a dismissive gesture. “Leave us! All of you.” At once the Great Hall began to clear. Lord Velayron gave Gaemon a worried look but Gaemon waved him away. Only once the doors had been shut did the Primarch speak.

“Do you know a Primarch’s primary purpose, Lord Aenar? To defend Valyria from threats both external and internal. The power of the dragonlords is fearsome, as is their ambition. An ambition that can sometimes threaten the stability of our society. I exist to end such threats. That is my purpose in life. To uncover threats previously unseen is my duty.”

“Then I regret to inform you Primarch that your time can be better spent elsewhere. My family has largely divorced ourselves from the plots of court. How can we threaten the stability of the Freehold from what you have admitted is a backwater? Perhaps, a location closer to court would better serve your mission.” Lord Aenar answered.

Gaemon shot to his feet when Aurion stroked Daenys’s cheek. Faora mirrored his action and a dagger of dragonsteel was in her hand in an instant. “Control yourself, Lord Gaemon.” The woman warned.

“Remove your hands from my wife.” He cursed himself for not having Blackfyre on his person.

“Sit Gaemon, I am sure the Primarch means no threat.” His father’s voice was calm, but his eyes were as sharp as Faora’s dagger.

Aurion laughed. A clear, deep note that reverberated through the empty hall. “Oh, the threat is plain, my lord. As a student of history, I am sure that you have read of the Days of Strife. When dragonlords went to war with one another. Kill the fathers and sons but their wives and daughters…my… can you imagine the humiliation of watching your sister-wife being used by your most hated enemy? Even for a daughter of Old Valyria, your sister is exquisite, Lord Gaemon. I think I would like to have her very much.”

 Gaemon would have leapt over the table if his father had not all but tackled him. Aurion rose from his seat and stood behind Daenys, his large hands rested on her shoulders. “Did you think you could hide her ability from me? I am a Primarch. I deal with threats both martial and arcane. To my eyes, your sister is practically glowing with potential. With the correct training, she could become a most formidable Farseer. Which makes me wonder why a lord with a daughter of such obvious ability would not use said ability against his enemies? Granted with a raw talent such as hers there is always the danger of madness, but to flee instead of even making an attempt?” He shook his head. “Unless there is already a plot in motion and this move is to give your family the necessary distance to avoid the political backlash.”

“We have no plots Primarch, I decided to move my children, so they could grow old in peace.” Lord Aenar’s words were a desperate plea.

Aurion bid Daenys to stand and then he wrapped a hand around her throat. “You see, I almost want to believe you. The Senate has granted Faora and me free reign to make our judgement and yet I find the spilling of dragonlord blood so… wasteful. Yet your wife was murdered in cold blood, the killing was blatant and for years many of us have expected your retaliation and instead you have done the opposite. Your son however looks ready to sacrifice everything to save his sister-wife. I am left to wonder with such a weak father why has son his not killed him to save his family further embarrassment.” Aurion’s fiery eyes flickered over to Gaemon.

“You threaten my family over such speculation?! I have heard nothing that could justify any action against us.”

“Faora, enlighten Lord Aenar and Lord Gaemon on what prompted our visit.”

“Other than the Senate’s fears that your ambition extends further than what they have authorized, there have been a number of assassinations of the Fourteen’s Fire Mages. Several of those mages were associated with House Artaris.” The dragonlord tilted her head. “Which brings your family into question. You do know that once one bears the cowl of a fire mage, they are considered politically neutral.”

Gaemon snorted. “A dispute between Fire Mages and you suspect us? We are thousand miles away, explain how we would even begin to organize such plots.” The elites of the Fire Mages of Old Valyria were sourced from the sons and daughters of the Forty families to add their potent bloodlines to better master the fires of the Fourteen Flames, the supreme source of Valyria’s sorcery. Ideally, when one joined the order they were considered separate from their family’s overarching goals and interests. However, that often wasn’t the case. Disputes between the forty families could often include members of the family who belonged to the order. Trained in pyromancy, shadowbinding and the taming of the great fire wyrms that belonged to the lands of the long summer, a member of the exalted Fire Mages could be deciding factor in a dispute between two families of the Forty.

“Your family has not contributed a new initiate to the order in several decades. Another troubling detail.” Faora flipped the knife in her deftly. Gaemon watched the blade spin through the air, hoping that she would err, and it would take a few of her fingers.

“My uncle, Aelyx is a most esteemed member of the order.” Lord Aenar protested.

“And he is old. Expendable, if there is any possibility of crossfire.” Aurion said sharply. His hand was still wrapped around Daenys’s neck but the Primarch applied little pressure. Gaemon could sense his sister’s fear but she tried to conceal her emotions as much as she was able. Her lips were set in a firm line and her eyes stared at Gaemon’s, bidding him not to act rashly.

“Baseless speculation. You have no evidence!”

Aurion’s brow cocked. “No evidence? Lord Aenar do you think me an amateur? Near a hundred years ago, a dragonsteel greatsword was commissioned from the dragon forges by your family and then said sword was sold by proxy to the Andal King by the name of Lannisters. I admit, your forebears hid the gold trail very well and it did take quite the effort to find the tomes detailing the transaction. Using the Velayrons as method of contact with the Andals was a nice touch but nothing escapes my eye. Did you think placing the gold with the Braavosi would be enough to hide it from a Primarch’s eyes? Foolish. Gold enough to purchase an army, that is what the keyholder spit out on the rack, I wonder just where that gold went?”

“The Senate put quite a premium on this isle and fortress, as I am sure you are aware Primarch. My family was also not without its debts, my father was many things but a frugal man he was not. The collectors needed to be assured that our move was not an attempt to absolve ourselves of said debt.” Gaemon wanted to question his father on what the Primarch spoke of. He was unaware of any it. A greatsword given to the Andals? The Braavosi Bank? _Was mother aware of this? When was father planning to tell me?_ He kept his questions to himself. They needed to present a united front.

“I examined your family’s finances, Lord Aenar before I came here. No stone was unturned. Your father may have been poor with numbers but the debts he held were not enough _to raise an army_. Where is the difference? Where did the rest of the gold go? Assassins, I think? Very skilled ones too if they can assassinate Fire Mages at their own temples.” Aurion pressed.

“You are free to examine our coffers, Primarch. I assure you there is nothing amiss.”

Aurion’s smile was sinister. “Liar.” The sound of Daenys’s dress tearing echoed throughout the hall. Daenys cried out in shock. Gaemon saw red. His father wasn’t able to stop him, but their struggle slowed him enough that he could only just turn to avoid the dagger aimed for his throat. He grunted as it dug into his shoulder. Aenar cried out as he hit his leg in his fall but Gaemon was too occupied to check on his father.

Reflexes save him from the foot aimed for his head though he nearly doubled over from the punch to his kidney. Faora’s assault was lightning quick and she forced him backwards with every strike. Briefly, all Gaemon could do was defend his head and tighten his gut. Off Balance, he collided with a chair and the wood splintered. If she was stronger, Gaemon was sure he would have never recovered but the dragonlord erred when she tried pulling out the dagger embedded in his shoulder. A single fist to the side of her jaw collapsed the woman in an instant. He lifted her by her braid. “I will kill her.”

Aurion did not look the least bit distressed. Instead, he pulled Daenys in his lap, a hand wrapped around her throat while the other held her hands behind her back. Daenys’ torso was bared for all to see. She struggled but efforts may as well have been in vain against the Primarch’s strength. “Go ahead. Faora, you disappoint me. You assured me that you could handle Lord Gaemon and yet you have failed. Failed your task and me.”

“Let my sister free, Aurion! My threat is far from idle.” Gaemon pressed, he yanked Faora’s braid to emphasize his point. She emitted a dazed protest. Already, the side of her face was showing the beginnings of a bruise.

“Are you hard of hearing, Lord Gaemon? I said kill her and be done with it. I will have all the justification I need to destroy your family, but I think your sister-wife will come with me. Raw talent such as hers is so hard to find these days, it would be a shame to let her go to waste.”

“Please Primarch, we have done nothing wrong.” Lord Aenar struggled to find his footing. His cane was on the far side of the room.

“The time for more of your lies is over. Your son could not control his temper and has violated the rights of hospitality. Now, my Faora is at his mercy. I believe any would say that I am well in my rights to defend myself against such belligerence.”

Gaemon wanted to call for their guards but Aurion’s men outnumbered their fighting men nearly three to one. Lord Velayron was loyal but he had neither the marital strength nor the preparation to make any difference other than a sacrifice. _Balerion._ Gaemon wanted to call out but he did not dare call his dragon.

“We moved because of my dreams!” Daenys cried. “My visions, they were always terrible and frequent. That is why my father moved us. Not for any plot but because he was just as scared as me when I told him. Please believe us Primarch. I have a journal where I’ve recorded every dream that I could remember.”

Aurion laughed. He patted Daenys’s head. “Now, the truth comes out. You see if you had just told the truth from the beginning then we could have avoided this entire mess. No where is this book of yours?”

“It is in my solar. I could take you there.” Aenar answered. He leaned heavily against the table.

“There is no need. We will read it here.” Aurion called out and the doors to the Great Hall opened. To their surprise, Aurion’s warriors marched in. The two were armored in red scale and carried large halberds with spiked tips at the end of the shaft. Gaemon could see no sign of their guards. He grimaced. “Escort Lord Aenar to his solar so he can retrieve a book for us.” The guards roughly grabbed his father by the arm. “Let the lord grab his cane so he can walk with dignity. There is no need for us to be rude to our hosts.” Almost as if were an afterthought, Aurion said, “Oh and gather Faora so she can be treated by the healer.”

Gaemon stared hard at the warrior who approached him. He was without a weapon and if he gave Faora away then, so he would be without a hostage. Aurion noticed his hesitation. “Let her go, Gaemon. Your sister will be returned to you. I will also permit a healer to treat your shoulder. That wound does look deep.”

Gaemon glanced at the bloody dagger on the floor before him. _How I would like nothing more to plunge that blade into your fucking eye._ He released Faora. The guard gathered the dazed dragonlord and made a move to grab the dagger off the floor.

“Leave it. Gaemon defeated her and now she has lost the right to the weapon.”

The guard nodded, and the warriors left, following Lord Aenar with Faora held between them. “Do you expect me to thank you?” Gaemon asked when they were alone. He made no motion to grab the dagger.

Aurion shrugged. He whispered in Daenys’s ear. “Go, run to your brother.”

Gaemon grunted as his sister slammed into his chest. He could not help but glare at Aurion as silent sobs rocked through Daenys’s slender form.

Their silence was interrupted as the healer entered the room. The man was another one of Aurion’s. “Do not worry, Gaemon. If I wanted to kill you then I would do it myself, poison is a woman’s weapon.”  Gaemon consented to the treatment. He winced as the wound was sterilized and then winced further as the healer’s needle mended his flesh.

Lord Aenar returned quickly. In his hand was a blue bound journal. Aenar slid the book on to the table and sat next to Gaemon who held Daenys in his lap. Gaemon had removed his blood-stained outer tunic at the insistence of the healer and wrapped the garment around his sister. Her eyes still shimmered but her face was brave.

“ _Signs and portents.”_ Aurion read the journal’s title. He looked to Daenys. “Fitting” Then he turned to Lord Aenar. “You are telling me that what was written in this book is the entirety of your reasoning behind the move?”

“Yes.” Lord Aenar answered without hesitation.

“Hmm.” Aurion opened the book and read. For hours they sat there, watching the Primarch read. Sometimes what looked like a frown would come upon his face, but his emotions were difficult to read. At times, the Primarch would linger on a page or reread. And sometimes he questioned Daenys.

“Some of these visions sound contradictory. Giant waves, smoke and burning dragons are mentioned yet you also speak of white shadows and pale blue eyes. A cold that burns worse than any dragon’s flame.” Aurion questioned.

It took a moment for Daenys to find her voice. When she did, it did not waver. “I have seen death, Primarch. The death of our people, our society and our dragons. And then I have seen the dead walk again. Smoke and fire, ice and a living cold that can freeze a man solid, my visions make as much sense to me as they do you, but they terrify me. My father made the decision to move us because he believed what I saw would eventually come to pass.”

“Is this the truth?” Aurion turned a pointed stare to Lord Aenar.

Aenar nodded. “It is, Primarch. My wife had similar visions. Though hers were less clear than Daenys’s, we always disregarded them. But I could ignore the signs no longer. You have said for yourself that Daenys is powerful, even if untrained. Could you ignore her if she was your daughter?”

Aurion did not answer but the man’s glowing eyes did look pensive.

Daenys spoke once again. “That is not all, Primarch. The shadows, the men without faces? I think those are your assassins.”

“And that gold your forebears acquired?” Aurion questioned Aenar once again.

“You can check our coffers Primarch Aurion, some of it still remains but most of our gold was either squandered over the generations or used in our move here to Dragonstone. Unless you believe my family is involved in some hundred yearlong conspiracy then I think whatever is to come is the result of a separatist movement. A movement that we have no part of.”

Aurion leaned back in his chair. His fingers tapped the surface of Daenys’ journal. “What your daughter has seen is the beginnings of a war. A great one if any of this is to be believed and yet you have remained largely silent. That could be treason enough.”

“And if the group that is behind this plotting were to become aware that my daughter has even an incoherent insight into their plans, how long would you think it would take for them to send an assassin after her? No, a father’s first duty is to his children. That is what I have done and if that is treason then only I should be accused of such.”

Aurion considered Aenar’s words. “Show me your coffers.”

Aurion and Faora stayed at their isle for three days and nights. The Primarch questioned Daenys on her dreams several times as Gaemon stood vigil and he would disappear with Lord Aenar into his father’s study for several hours. On the second day, Gaemon traveled with Faora and Aurion to Driftmark and then to Claw Isle that same evening.

On the last day, Gaemon stood in at the mouth of the dragon caves as Aurion and Faora waited as their dragons were readied. Aurion was clad in his spell forged armor with his dragonbone hilted sword sheathed across his back. His helmet was held under his arm while Faora wore hers, hiding the ugly bruise that covered half her face.

“I will warn you all, if I do find evidence that you are part of this plot then I will not hesitate to destroy your family root and stem.”

“Understood Primarch, but we have no worry. What we have told you is the truth. Safe travels to you both.” Lord Aenar answered. Faora grunted and mounted her dragon. She was in the air a moment later. Aurion lingered.

“Gaemon, contrary to what you might believe I do admire how fiercely you defended your sister and how you handled Faora. Your skill is admirable.” He patted his sword’s hilt. “It is shame that we could never cross swords, perhaps I will see your skill showcased in the next games?”

Gaemon shook his head. “You have heard my sister’s warnings. Until she is sure that it safe to return, my place is here.”

“Such a tragedy. Make no mistake I will neutralize these threats and brings those responsible to the mercy of my judgement.” He turned his gaze to Daenys. “Lady Targaryen, I do hope you will forgive me for how I was forced to treat you. Sometimes barbarity is required for progress. I hope you understand, and I thank you for your book.”

Gaemon’s jaw tightened but Daenys squeezed his hand in reassurance. She nodded at the Primarch. “Safe travels, Primarch Aurion. Valyria is safer with you as its protector.”

A wooden staircase had been pushed against the side of Aurion’s armored beast but the Primarch used a rope tied around one of his dragon’s horns to haul himself in place. The massive beast began to move, and the earth shook with each step. With his helm on, Aurion’s voice was warped into a deep rasp. It boomed over the stones of the basin, as loud as a shout of a field commander. “I suspect this is not the last time we will see each other. Until next time House Targaryen. Vhagon Soves!” The flap of the great dragon’s wings raised a cloud of dirt and threw stones in every direction. A boulder cracked under its weight and the earth shook beneath them. And then it was airborne.

The three Targaryens stood near the dragon caves long after the Primarch and his men departed. Lord Aenar looked older and more haggard than Gaemon had ever seen him.  

“What is this gold and greatsword that the Primarch spoke of? I never heard of it until he mentioned it.”

Aenar sighed. “Trust me my son, it is not the time that you two should become privy to such knowledge. Let us count ourselves lucky that the Primarch could only speculate.”

Lord Aenar would speak no further on the matter, even as Daenys and Gaemon repeatedly questioned him. The next years on their isle were quiet. The pirates harassed the Durradon King sufficiently and there were few incidents with their Andal neighbors, none required the use of their dragons. Their children grew older as did their father. On their twelfth year on the isle, Gaemon stood with his sister-wife on the balcony of their bedchamber. He held her in his arms and the sea breeze lifted their hair as they gazed east.

“Do you wish you were there?” Daenys asked him. She wore a thin pink slip that parted easily under his hands. He traced her belly and then palmed her breasts.

The Great Games had come. A celebration that came every four years and brought the gathering of almost every dragonlord of the Freehold to the capital. In the games, dragonlords competed against one another for the highest glory, for both themselves and their house. Gaemon had won a medal at the age of sixteen, nearly unprecedented in modern games. Now he was much older, with a son who was shaping to be an even bolder rider than his father. “It would be a lie if I said no but in truth I am happy to spend my days with you.” He kissed her neck. “This peace is good for the soul.”

“Well are you not a sweet talker… I think you want something tonight-“Her playful voice stopped. She suddenly grew still in his arms.

“Daenys?” Gaemon questioned.

The ground trembled beneath him.  One look at Daenys and Gaemon knew. _Aurion failed._

Days later the eastern sky was stained by a long column of ash. Thousands of miles away and the devastation of their homeland was still visible. The resultant quakes even created massive waves that destroyed most of their port and the village above.

Gaemon and Daenys joined their father in his solar. Lord Aenar sat in his high-backed chair and gazed across the Narrow Sea. On another table, the Obsidian Candle flickered with a brilliant light and then died. Aenar bowed his head. His beard had grown long, and his eyes had begun to dim. A sad smile was on his face. “We won.” He said.

Gaemon’s chest tightened and he pulled his sister to him as she began to cry.

_What have we done?_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the hiatus. Next chapter will be back in the present and should be out before Christmas. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are appreciated.
> 
> Also 100 points to everyone who can find the easter eggs in this chapter.


	15. The Return Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays.

**Ser Jorah Mormont**

Thick ash polluted the red and gold of the dawning sky. Near every surface was covered with soot and the air smelled foul. Every breath was filled with the nauseating smell of sulphur and burning flesh. Buildings continued to burn hours after the dragon had terrorized Old Volantis from the sky above. Jorah had never seen such a display of raw power. Especially, power unleashed so suddenly and without warning.

The Tiger Cloaks had responded quickly to the threat but there were rumors of a mutiny, sabotages and infighting that had plagued the efforts to counter the attack. Jorah had led a squadron of soldiers against the traitors under orders to capture as many alive as he could. His arm ached from the graze of a halberd against his forearm. His vambrace ensured the wound would be nothing but a bruise to remind him of his error. _I am getting old and slow._ It seemed more than a lifetime ago since he had stormed the castle Pyke with Longclaw in his hand. That young knight could have carved through these slave soldiers with ease.

He was both greater and lesser than that knight of yesteryear. Slower yes, but still as strong as ever. Normally, he was more cautious as well but every man was prone to mistakes. _Was this attack the result of a mistake?_  He had thought that the Prince had departed from Volantis before the final funeral ceremonies. Prince Jaehaerys’s absence from the final procession had been noted by all. Yet, near a week later the city was turned into a burning battlefield by the rage of a dragon.

Three Tiger Cloaks walked with him. The sound of their boots against the stone contrasted with the city’s cries and screams.

Syraxes’s dragon fire had leapt from building to building with impunity. Stone did not burn but the wooden balconies, supports, cloth awnings and everything in between acted like kindling. The dragon’s ferocity and its continuous attack had prevented the crews normally assigned to fight fires from combatting the flames until long after they had grown into an inferno. Worse yet, dragonfire seemed to burn with more intensity and volatility than normal flames; easily spreading across the gaps between buildings while the water pulled from the canals hardly seemed to suppress it.

“Someone help me! My baby! My sweet boy!” Jorah turned away from the sight of the blackened husk that the woman clutched in her badly burned arms. Flashes of color were still visible amongst the rags that she wore. An illusion of its former elegance. He had seen scores of mothers, fathers, and newly orphaned children just like her. Some belted agonized screeches that had become a sort of perverse chorus, stopping and starting once again as one moved through the hazy streets. Others ahead stared listlessly and then there were those calling for answers. Jorah knew their confusion and disbelief would soon turn to anger. He wondered how the Triarchy would respond.

Jorah and the Tiger Cloaks found Triarch Daelyx amongst the elites of East Volantis in the courtyard of Syrax. The Triarch stood tall against the crowd growing around him. Yet his rich clothes were disheveled, stained with ash, and the man looked wearier than Jorah had ever seen him before. His sister, Naemella stood beside him with her young children in tow. Thankfully, none of them looked to have been harmed.

The Prince and his dragon had killed dozens of Tiger Cloaks, much of the rest had been assigned to fight the fires, help with the many injured, pile the bodies and most importantly take up defensive positions in the event that the dragon returned. Due to this, Daelyx’s normal escort was reduced considerably and the growing crowd pressed in close.

“Why did this happen Triarch?!” A man shouted.

“How will we respond to this?”

“That beast must be brought to justice!”

Jorah shouldered his way through the crowd and then ordered the Tiger Cloaks to form a perimeter around the family.

Daelyx weathered the questions. “I hear your concerns everyone. Our warriors stand at the ready to defend our city and I have word that the High Priest Benerro has won a great victory over the dragon and the mad Prince. More answers will be given to you in due time.”

“Is he dead?” A woman yelled.

“No.” There were groans of disappointment. “But he will wish that he was. That I promise you.”

“Make way!” Jorah ordered once Daelyx had made the gesture that he was done answering questions. The Old Blood parted reluctantly. A carriage waited at the back of the large crowd.

“See that my sister and her children find their way home safely.” Daelyx told the driver of the carriage.

Naemella protested. “Daelyx, this should not be the time.”

Daelyx grimaced. “It is, Naemalla. It is. Ser Jorah, you’re with me.” He kissed his sister’s forehead and repeated the act on his niece and nephew. A moment later and they were carried away.

“Triarch?” Jorah asked they climbed in another carriage. This one was closed roofed and the shutters were down, affording them privacy.

“Ser, I have never doubted your loyalty but now I must ask. Jaehaerys is a Prince of your homeland…” Daelyx’s gaze was piercing as he awaited an answer.

“I am under the threat of death if I ever were to return home, Triarch. My loyalty lies with you.” Jorah said with honesty. He had given up hope of ever returning to Bear Island. Eddard Stark would take his head as soon as he set foot in the North. The thought of his former liege lord still brought him shame. A man was meant to defend his wife and her reputation, anger and the drink had gotten the best of him. He rid his mind of the bitter thoughts.

“Good, I may need your sword.” Daelyx’s voice was grim.

“For whom, if I might ask?” Jorah questioned.

“My brother.” Came Daelyx’s reply.

Jorah knew which brother Daelyx spoke of. Maelyx had a black reputation even amongst his family. He was rarely spoken of and had only been seen in Volantis sparingly in the years during which Jorah had served Daelyx and his family. `

Their ride was short and the road was littered with broken chariots and stained by blood.   _A battle was fought here._ The scene was worse in the courtyard. Burn marks and blood stains were scattered across the stones along with arrows, spears, ropes, and chains. A score of bodies had been moved to one corner with sheets to hide their broken forms. Three Tiger cloaks met Daelyx and Jorah.

They saluted the Triarch before speaking. “My Triarch, we have held your brother here under your orders. I hope you will forgive us Triarch but he is a difficult man to control.”

Daelyx’s gaze was dark. He nodded. “Take me to him.” The four men formed a guard around the Triarch and escorted him to the old barracks. It was made of thick, bare stone, bleached by centuries or longer under the sun. Several of such buildings could be found on the outskirts of the inner city, holdovers from the days when Old Volantis had been little more than a military outpost for the Freehold.

Maelyx’s cell was a level underground, a wide, featureless room with a slanting roof and an iron-banded door. His armor and weapons had been stripped and he sat shirtless at the far side of the room. A single candle by the door was the only illumination. Maelyx’s face and half the room behind him were wreathed in shadow.

The cell was cold. The chill was cold enough that their breaths became visible as they filed into the room. Goosebumps rose across Maelyx’s shoulders and chest, yet the man seemed unperturbed.

Jorah moved to the right wall of the room while a slim, spear-carrying Unsullied stood to the left. Jorah kept a hand on the hilt of his sword and laid an unflinching gaze upon Maelyx. Two guards stood just behind the Triarch, their weapons remained at ready.

“Brother.” There was little warmth in the deep rasp of Maelyx’s voice.

“Do you know what you have done?” Daelyx’s sharp voice cracked like a whip.

Maelyx’s laughter pierced the silence of the small room. “I have given you exactly what you have desired all along brother, a true enemy.”

“I gave the Prince my word of protection and you broke it! Now scores of innocents have been killed, Benerro is bedridden and the city looks like a fucking warzone. All because of you. What do you think happens to our family when the word comes that all this chaos is because of you?”

Maelyx’s shoulders lifted and then dropped. “I wouldn’t know because it won’t come to that.”

Daelyx looked bewildered. Strands of hair from his normally neat blonde braid spilled loosely across his face. “Surely, you are not that delusional? An attack like this brings questions as to why it happened. Questions that I cannot answer because I know my insane little brother was the root cause.”

“Half-brother,” Maelyx added quickly. “Besides, I am not one for loose ends. I told you that I would not let him leave this city without making him pay the blood price. As far as anyone in this city needs to know, the Prince had been gone for days and then suddenly returned to attack the city without warning or cause.”

“And you think anyone will believe that?” Daelyx asked.

Maelyx pounded his fist against his thigh. “I do, brother. Who can tell them otherwise? Who will want to believe any different? You are the one who represents the dream of Volantis’s return to glory and that Prince is a Targaryen. It is not as if our city has not had to contest with them before. Need I remind you of our history, brother? How many of our gains in the Century of Blood were thwarted by the Targaryens and their fucking dragons? That Prince is a return to the same but now he has made the conflict a bit more… personal.” The man leaned forward and the light fell upon his ugly mouth. Those lips tilted into a smile.

Daelyx quieted. His chin dipped as he considered his brother’s words. “And you can assure me that you have covered your tracks?”

Maelyx chuckled. “Who do you think I am, brother? Of course. This is the story that you will tell the Senate. Guards found the household staff of the palace that our family had provided for the Prince, slaughtered without mercy. The bodies are there. “ Maelyx tilted his head. “Do not make that face. Slaves are most expendable. Next, he moved onto the family of the woman that he was so enamored with. And killed them all with that magnificent sword of his. Once his bloodlust had been sated, he departed from the city on his dragon. Information was withheld from the public so as to not create a panic while men were sent discreetly to find the Prince and hold him responsible. Unfortunately, he returned to the city and wreaked the havoc that you saw tonight. If you want more legitimacy then investigate the Venigars, his uncle married a daughter of theirs. I doubt there is cause to charge them with a conspiracy but the thought that they had conspirators in the ranks of the Old Blood itself would be enough to stir the anger of the masses.”

The taste in Jorah’s mouth grew bitter. He had spent days with the Prince. The boy may have been an arrogant shit, but he was not the madman that this Maelyx was so desperate to paint him. He had thought this Maelyx was nothing more than an animal and perhaps the characterization had merit. For the man spoke of his casual murders without inflection as if the taking of a life was as easy as breathing. _Where do your loyalties lie, Mormont? Remain silent._ Jorah stilled his shifting feet.

“And my colleagues? Do you think they will enjoy hearing that I withheld such information from them?”

 “You’re the politician, Daelyx not I. The outrage that you could create from this attack will be more than enough to align the populace with your goals. Who can truly challenge you? The Senate?” He spat. “Weak men with skinny fucking arms, who grow fat and lazy. Malaquo Maegyr may as well thank me and no one will listen to that boy-fucker Nyesso Vhassar. Not now. Take the opportunity that I have given you and seize it.”

Daelyx’s brow arched. “You call this an opportunity?” He sneered and shook his finger at his brother. “Somewhere, somehow you underestimated Jaehaerys and now we have a shitstorm to deal with. You are grasping for a lifeline and you know it. Be thankful, that you are my brother.”

“Yes, I call this opportunity.” Maelyx spat. “There is now an imperative need for Volantis to grow strong! Tell me, brother, what would you have done if the Targaryens sought to interfere with your conquest? Beg them not to? Do you think that the Dragon King will punish his beloved son? No, he will pardon him to the vast outrage of all those outside. You know that I speak the truth.”

To Jorah’s dismay, Daelyx did seem to be swayed by his brother’s words. Against his better judgment, Jorah spoke. “Triarch, if I may be allowed to speak.”

Daelyx nodded.

“Declaring war on Westeros may be an ill-gotten move. Your armies may be formidable but if provoked the Targaryens can field an enormous number of men and now they have _dragons as well_.” Jorah emphasized.

“They have one dragon. A small one.” Maelyx sneered. “Westeros may not be so quick to leap to the defense of their Prince. There is a saying in Westeros, every time a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin. A recent event will prompt questions if Jaehaerys’s coin landed on the wrong face.”

“One dragon was enough to kill hundreds and turn this great city into a burning battlefield.” Jorah retorted. He had no idea what Maelyx meant by the recent event but by the man’s tone, it sounded ominous.

“That one dragon would have been put down if it were not for the mutiny. You’d best be served by killing the Prince’s red whore before she can cause further trouble. I bet that he is with her now. Perhaps, they are even plotting his rise to power as we speak.” Maelyx’s words drew a grimace on Daelyx’s face.

“I doubt that the Prince only intends to bring a single dragon back to the world. He has a brother, two sisters, his uncle and aunt, his father and grandmother, all likely to become dragon riders soon enough. If history has anything to tell us then it is that the Targaryens do not respond well to threats.” Jorah warned Daelyx.

“Baby dragons. Infants. That big black one that burned Volantis’s fleet was born during the end of the Freehold, a century it took to turn it into a true beast of war. They are hardly as formidable as one might believe. And fortunately for you brother, so as long as we provide them sufficient support the Shadowbinders that I have brought from Asshai have the means to counter and eventually claim the dragons as our own.” Maelyx stood and stepped into the light. There was a bloody hole where his left eye should have been. His right eye was dark and filled with malice. The smile on his face was cruel. He was not alone. Four lacquered masks appeared behind Maelyx. Four tall robed figures took shape, attached to the masks.

He tensed and step towards the big man and the Shadowbinders. He bared an inch of steel. Maelyx ignored him. “One way or another, I will have my vengeance but if we work together then our family can be advanced far more than father had ever dreamed. What say you?”

Daelyx’s was as surprised by the emergence of the Shadowbinders as they were. “Who are you?” He asked.

“We once were twelve.” Jorah could not tell if the Shadowbinder who spoke was male or female. The four formed a sort of guard around Maelyx. Behind their masks, their eyes seemed to burn like falling stars. “We were twelve who traveled up the river ash, twelve who glimpsed upon the gates of the Styagi, twelve who knew the Old Powers were awakening and that the Heart of Shadow stirs.”

“And now you are four.” Daelyx finished. The Triarch stepped closer to his brother and the shadowbinders. “What do you want?”

“Power like most men.” Another Shadowbinder answered. “Unlike most men, the power that we seek is far beyond what material wealth could grant us. We seek power that the gods themselves would envy.”

“Your brother saw the value in allying with us. He too understands that change is coming to the world and in times of great shifts, the rewarded are those who seize control of the emerging opportunities. Will you be so wise, Triarch Daelyx?” The third Shadowbinder spoke.

“A partnership between us will be most fruitful.” Said the last Shadowbinder.

“Do you see brother?” Maelyx spread his arms. “With them at our side, not only will we be able to counter the Targaryens and their dragons, those same dragons can soon be our own.”

Daelyx scoffed.

A shadowbinder tilted his head. “You are skeptical I see but I ask, how do you believe the dragonlords of Old Valyria came to possess their dragons?”

“I suppose they found the dragons in the fourteen flames,” Daelyx answered.

A round of laughter came from the Shadowbinders. “A lie they told themselves so many times that it became their truth. No, the first dragons came from Asshai and it was those from Asshai who their creators were. The Valyrians may have altered the species for their wars over thousands of years but they would be nothing but sheepherders if were not for the generosity of those that came before. These Targaryens are a far cry from the powerful sorcerers of Old Valyria, their ignorance will be their undoing.”

The arrogance of the Shadowbinders was chilling. _How can they be so sure of themselves.?_  Jorah would run in the other direction if he ever saw the dragon again and yet these _men_ , and he used the term loosely, spoke of the dragons as if wresting control from the Targaryens was a simple matter.

To his relief, Daelyx seemed to regain some of his skepticism. “As wonderful as your speech was, I am not betting the safety of my city or risking war with a foreign power based on empty promises.”

The room’s single candle suddenly flared, growing from a small flame to several feet tall in an instant. The Shadowbinders grew as well, their robes seemed to spread with the shadows thrown by the flame. Along the walls of the room, dark figures danced, and red eyes stared. Jorah felt the cold touch of an unseen hand against his cheek. Alarmed he drew his sword but to his horror, his wrist was immobilized. Cries of alarm from the Tiger Cloaks sounded throughout the room.

“Stop it,” Daelyx ordered. Across the room, Jorah could make out faceless shadows coil across the walls. Some were shaped like men, others were terrible beasts that he could not name.

“Understand brother, the power that these four possess is very real. And the power that they promise is even greater.” Maelyx’s cracked teeth were visible as he grinned widely. His one eye shined with what Jorah would label _madness_. “It will take them time to work their miracles. Construct a temporary peace with the Targaryens as need be while the preparations for war are made. All I ask for is the freedom and resources so these four can conduct their art.”

“What do your men need?” Daelyx asked after a time.

“Slaves for their experiments. We can start by ending the shipments of the condemned to be sent up the Rhoyne. That infected fodder might prove most useful. An envoy must be sent to Qohor, that city does not lack for those talented in sorcery. Their guilds should know that so as long as they faithfully serve Volantis, then our city can be a haven for their arts.” The Shadowbinders nodded as Maelyx spoke.

Daelyx cocked a brow. “Is that all?”

Maelyx shook his head. “They will need gold to gather their supplies. An expedition should be prepared for Valyria itself. If Jaehaerys was able to delve into its depths and return unscathed then what should bar us from doing so? Give me the access that I need and you need not to worry yourself. I will see to all of this.”

Daelyx scowled, “Only if I have your word that you will not take any drastic actions without my explicit consent.”

Maelyx sucked his teeth. “Very well. Oh, and also… I will need some skilled hunters to retrieve a few specimens from Gorosh.”

“Gorosh as in that ruined Ghsicari city in Sothoryos? What could you possibly want from there?” Daelyx questioned.

 Maelyx rubbed his hands. “Would you want me to spoil the surprise brother? Trust me they will be as magnificent as a dragon!” His laughter rang throughout the room.

**Aegon Targaryen**

“The Prince is tired,” Aegon muttered, more than a little frustrated by his father’s dismissal. He had no idea how his father could be so foolish as to not threaten Volantis with war. An attack on the Blood of the Dragon, his brother nonetheless, was an act of war itself and if what Visenya had seen had any inkling of the truth then Volantis had the means to strike at them without ever raising an army. _Father should threaten to turn their city to ash if Jon is not released immediately._ The thought of his little brother being tortured was sickening.

In his hand, he held the sword that had been one among his brother’s many gifts. Almost absentmindedly, he polished the priceless longsword that hailed from the ruined and accursed lands of Valyria. Tobho Mott, a Qohorik Smith and by far the greatest that could be found in King’s Landing, had replaced the ruined hilt with one of silvered steel, a sapphire was embedded in the hilt which matched the deep blue of the blade. The dark, smoke-like ripples marked the blade unmistakably as Valyrian steel. He swore to himself that the blade would bathe in the blood of the Old Blood if necessary.

His attention was not on his blade, however. He stared at the lit brazier in his room. Ser Loras had sent him a questioning look when Aegon had sent for wood to light the flames. At the height of summer, it was far too warm in his chambers to justify a fire, but the additional warmth was not the purpose of the flames. No, the egg that sat in the middle of the brazier dominated his attention. Shadows marked with brilliant streaks of gold, emerald and most of all crimson. The ten eggs that Jon had brought from Valyria rotated almost weekly between his family. It had been Marwyn’s suggestion so that the hatchlings who would emerge from the stones would have had ample opportunity to choose their rider. Tonight, the egg that was in his possession was of the two remaining special eggs that Jon had discovered. Aegon wished he knew the spells to bring to life the surely beautiful and deadly wyrm that lay frozen within.

The greatest of the Lords of Dragonstone, Gaemon the Glorious, had shown Volantis the folly of contesting with the last of the forty, a lesson that Aegon the Dragon had seen fit to instruct them on once again at the end of the century of blood. _It seems another lesson is necessary._ His musing was interrupted by the sound of the door to his bedchamber opening.

Aegon stood, shirtless and sword still in hand to regard his unwelcome visitor. “Who the fuck are you?” Her clothes were rough spun, a hood concealed her face and she wore simple sandals that were left by the door. She was quite clearly a serving girl. _What in the seven hells is Loras doing?_ He was about to call out to his Kingsguard and question his ability to follow directions when the girl pulled back her hood. Familiar brown locks and wide, doe-brown eyes marked the beauty as his betrothed. “Margaery?” Absent was the clever smile that he had grown to love. Instead, Margaery’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

“Egg.” She whimpered and threw herself against his chest. He carefully set his sword down and embraced her. He could feel the wet on his chest and her body shook as she cried.

Aegon held her silently, stroked her hair and waited till she gained composure. He knew she likely grieved for her cousins who were killed by Ghost, though he did not know that she was close with the Redwyne twins.

“I did not know if you were hurt. The guards would share no news with us, but I heard you were in the courtyard when the attack happened.” She looked up at him, with streaks of salt staining her cheeks.

He smiled reassuringly and kissed her brow. “As you can see, I am fine. Rhaenys and I arrived after it had all been over.” He cocked his head and ran his hands over her form. “Are you well?”

She nodded. Still visibly shaken but lacking any wounds that he could find. A surge of guilt rushed through him with all the worry about his little sister, the casualties of Ghost’s attack, and the uncertainty surrounding Jon’s condition and whereabouts, Margaery had slipped his mind entirely.

“I-“ She faltered. “I saw the wolf run past me…there was so much blood. Father forbid, I never thought I’d see so much blood.” Aegon gathered her in his arms and lifted her off her feet, bridal style. Margaery was smaller than his Rhaenys, who herself did not weigh much, and it required little effort to carry her to his bed. He settled against the headboard of the canopied bed while Margaery rested on his chest.

He tried to choose his words carefully. “You have nothing to worry for now. The castle is secured and not even a direwolf can jump the moat and get past the doors of Maegor’s Holdfast.”

“Is the King sending men after the wolf? Knowing Lord Paxter, he would be of the first to volunteer.” Margaery asked. Her breath was warm against his neck.

“No,” Aegon responded. Margaery shifted and stared at him in surprise. “Ghost was not entirely responsible for what occurred today.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. How could the beast not be responsible? I saw the blood on his fur with my own eyes.”

Aegon’s jaw shifted and he pondered what to tell her. While the arrival of Ghost had captivated the court years ago, the true nature and extent of the bond that Jon shared with his wolf was a secret that did not stray far outside of their family. His father had aggravated some members of the Most Devout when he took Lyanna as a second wife and queen and the last thing that they needed was for word that the Northern Prince practiced sorcery gifted from the Old Gods to spread. Stories spoke of how the warriors of the Seven warred against the First Men, their wargs and the Children of the Forest. In the stories, the wargs were always more monsters than men. Gifted with foul powers, they would send their beasts to devour the women and children of the devout. Only through fire, iron, and prayer did the warriors of the Faith overcome their foes. Margaery was far closer to the Faith than him and he did not want to alarm her with the truth of his brother’s power.

“Ghost was not in control of his actions.” He began and persisted when her skepticism did not decrease. “Understand, I have known Ghost since he was just a pup. I watched my brother pull the wolf from the body of its dead mother. He has never been violent to anyone who did not deserve it. Not so much as a nip.” He stared into her eyes. “Promise me that you will keep this to yourself.” She nodded. “My brother has been taken by Shadowbinders, possibly ones allied with the Triarchs of Volantis. They were the ones that caused this attack, Ghost was just a vessel for their will.”

“But how? Volantis is across the sea and thousands of miles away.” She paused and considered. “And your brother has a dragon, who could capture him?”

“Dead men.” He promised. “Whatever sorcery or trickery that they used to capture my brother and orchestrate this massacre will not save them.”

Margaery grew quiet then and Aegon held her. He had thought she had fallen asleep when she finally spoke. “Would it not be better if the wolf was put down, does he not remain a danger? If one attack can happen, why not another?”

Aegon paused. He had been betrothed to Margaery for years and had been aware of the high likelihood of her becoming his future wife and queen for far longer. Before his sister had ever enticed the heiress into their bed, he had shared countless conversations with her. Never in that time could he remember a surge of anger as fierce as the one that now ran through him in response to anything she said. “My lady, I will forgive what you have said because you have lost family today but never speak again of harming Ghost. Do you understand me?”

She stared up at him in shock. “Aegon, I-” He affixed a glare that halted her words.

“Never.” He reminded and held her gaze until she nodded her head.

Her hand ran across his chest and she kissed above his nipple. “I am sorry.” She whispered. “I did not know that your brother was in danger. Please forgive me for overstepping my bounds.”

Aegon brushed her concerns away. He kissed her. “All is forgiven, my lady.” Margaery kissed him once again. And again. When he pulled away from her, the smile she wore was almost shy. Her brown hair framed her face in a thick mane. Her brown big brown eyes were wide and inviting. He ran a hand over the servant’s garb that she wore. Somehow, it made her even more enticing. “Does your grandmother know that you are here?”

Margaery shook her head. “Nor would she or my father approve but I had to see you.”

“I feel honored,” Aegon told her. Their kisses grew heated and soon Margaery climbed atop of him, grinding against his length still encased within his trousers. Her lips found his neck while his hands found her hips, bunching the fabric so he could feel the naked skin beneath.

The heat was in his blood at that moment but Aegon stopped before she could pull the garb over her head. “Let us rest tonight.” He told her. It felt wrong to engage in such an act when Rhaenys was consoling their little sister. Margaery’s answering pout nearly made him reconsider. Thankfully, she listened to his words and snuggled against him. The inviting smell of her hair made sleep come to him quickly.

By the time Aegon awoke, Margaery was gone. He broke his fast on hard-boiled eggs, strips of bacon, greens and washed it down with Arbor Red flavored with lemon. Once his hunger was sated, he tried to meet with his father but to his frustration was turned away from his father’s solar. Apparently, Aegon was not worthy of being privy to the king’s discussion.

Frustrated, Aegon turned away and resolved himself to find his sisters. He found the two of them along with Daenerys and a girl that he had not seen in years. “Arya?” Aegon asked, more than a little surprised.

She wore dark riding leathers, a green tunic, and boots specked with mud. A stark difference from the dresses of the Targaryen Princesses. Her long brown locks were bound in a braid. ‘Arya Underfoot’ they called her in Winterfell, as the little girl was always finding some way to get into trouble or to include herself in whatever he, Jon, Robb, and Theon were doing. At eleven years old, she was growing tall and quickly becoming the doppelganger of her aunt Lyanna. “Egg!” He grunted as she launched herself at him.

Aegon wrapped his arms around Arya and spun her while laughing. “Still skin and bones, I see.” He teased.

Arya laughed and spun away. “Quiet, stupid.” She settled next to Visenya. His little sister flashed him a pretty smile. Aegon blinked, even with their different colored hair, the two looked more like long lost sisters than cousins. Identical grey eyes filled with mirth at his reaction.

“When did you get here and are you alone? I have heard nothing of Lord Stark’s arrival.” He questioned.

“Your outburst last night caused you to miss all of the night’s excitement.” Rhaenys scolded. His sister lay on a couch perpendicular to where Arya and Visenya were seated. Her head was in Daenerys’s lap. Those indigo eyes of hers were sharp, ire plain.

Daenerys ran her fingers through her niece’s dark tresses. “Rhaenys speaks truly. Viserys played the hero last night.” A smile touched her lips. “Well, that is until he was saved by this she-wolf here.” Dany gestured to Arya who wore an abashed smile.

“Robb helped too.” Arya quickly reminded. “And Bran. Without him, we would have never known Ghost was in danger.”

 _How much have I missed?_ “Where are Robb and Bran?” he asked.

“Robb is with your maester and the wolves. The King thought it best if they remained in the woods. Bran is on the Isle of Faces.” Arya answered and then the four ladies relayed to him what he had missed in his confinement.

Ser Desmond’s threat of bodily harm against Viserys had earned the knight a comfortable cell on the traitor’s walk. Paxter Redwyne, distraught by the loss of his sons intended to leave for the Arbor, though not until justice was had. Most certainly a troubling statement made by a man who controlled the second largest fleet in Westeros.

“Letting Ghost live will earn us no good will,” Rhaenys said. Her demeanor was subdued from its usual vibrancy. While Visenya, who had been filled with anguish the last he had seen her, seemed renewed by the presence of her cousin. Daenerys was mostly quiet. Her eyes were contemplative and her expression difficult to read.

“It was not his fault,” Visenya repeated. A stubborn edge was now present in her voice.

“And those at fault will know the meaning of wolves' mercy,” Arya promised. There was a certain bloodlust to her eyes that gave the words a foreboding edge despite her small size. Aegon had found his favorite Stark.

“Not if the dragon gets to them first, little wolf.” He responded.

“Until we can prove who is at fault, all anyone will see is our family protecting a monster who kills children.” Daenerys interrupted. She did not appear pleased by their banter. Nor did Rhaenys.

“The Lords affected will need their concessions. Make no mistake, this will cost us.” Rhaenys warned.

“And we know nothing of what may come of Jon.” There was a profound sadness in Daenerys’s pretty eyes. No matter the time they spent apart, it was clear that she still cared deeply for his wayward brother.

“The Sers will bring him home,” Visenya stated with confidence. She reached across space between the couches to squeeze Daenerys’s hand.

“Have you seen it?” Aegon asked his little sister. She had _seen_ Jon being tortured, perhaps she saw something of his escape. To his dismay, she shook her head.

Ever fierce, Arya combatted the melancholy that threatened to envelop them all. “Jon is a much a wolf as he is a dragon. He is part of our pack. He still lives, if he did not then Nymeria would feel Ghost’s pain. Do not lose hope.”

“I want to see Ghost,” Visenya said suddenly.

“Father will never allow you to leave the castle. Not now at least.” Rhaenys answered. She stared down at their little sister who looked set to argue. Senya may have been the most docile of all his female family members, but she had inherited her mother’s stubbornness.

Deciding to change the subject before the two could argue, Aegon asked, “You said without Bran, you would have never known Ghost was in danger? How could he know or even tell you?”

“Bran is more than a warg, Lord Reed says. He is a greenseer and they can use more than their eyes to see. The greenmen on the Isle of Faces must have taught him how to visit us in our dreams.” Arya replied.

“Just you two?” Daenerys asked.

Arya shook her head. “All of us children were visited by Bran but me and Robb are the best riders. Rickon is too young and Sansa is too slow.”

Aegon looked to Visenya. “Is that how you saw Jon? Maybe Bran helped.”

His little sister shook her head. “When I looked at Ghost’s eyes, I could see Jon through them. I saw Jon and those _things_ that were torturing him, but I did not see Bran.”

“Grandmaester Marwyn says you are no warg but how could you not be if you could look at Ghost and see his master?” Daenerys asked.

Arya disagreed. “No, a warg can tell another with just a glance. I can’t explain it, but I just know when someone has the gift. When I look at Senya, I see a pretty face and not much else.”

Visenya laughed and gave Arya a playful shove. She pouted. “It looks like I am the only Stark who isn’t special.”

Arya grinned. “Lord Reed says our _third-eye_ only opened when we found our wolves. You can take Lady from Sansa if you want.”

Aegon sat across from his sister and Arya. He leaned back. “Still fighting with your sister, I see. Somethings never change.” Arya stuck her tongue at him.

“Have you spoken to father?” Rhaenys asked. Her dark purple eyes were piercing.

“No.” He answered. “Father hasn’t seen fit to include me in his meetings.”

“Can you blame him?” Rhaenys’s sharp tone was surprising. As was the scalding look that was present on both her and Daenerys’s faces.

Aegon was taken back. “Of all of us, I would have expected you to thank me.” He pointed to Dany. “All the secrets father was keeping, his plans and schemes that were made without consulting the family first. Doesn’t that trouble you?”

“Rhaegar is the king. I may not agree with everything he plans but it is not my place to question him. Nor is it yours.” Daenerys answered. By the expression on her face, he wondered if her words were to convince him or herself.

“Aegon only wanted to help Jon in the best way he thought possible. Anyone who hurts my brother deserves to be put to the sword.” Visenya argued fiercely. The look on her face promised murder.

Daenerys flashed her an exasperated look. “I agree completely but Rhaegar is right, we don’t know the identity of our enemy. Sending the Kingsguard to discover who they are and where they are holding Jon is the better action. Threatening a war may only get him killed.”  Rhaenys nodded her agreement.

“We need to trust in father and not argue amongst ourselves if we are meant to weather this crisis. Infighting serves no purpose other than to weaken us.” Rhaenys’s sage voice calmed the rising tempers.

Aegon slumped in his seat. “Perhaps, I was too critical of father.”

There came a knock on the door, a moment later Ser Oswell entered. The bandages on the knight’s right hand were fresh. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he had gotten little rest. “The King wants to see you, Prince.” Oswell turned to the girls. “Ladies, the King also asks for you all to dress in black. There will be a prayer held at the castle sept before we lead a procession to the Sept of Baelor.”

Aegon rapped his fingers against the chair’s armrest before rising. “The High Septon must have his prayers.” He hugged Arya once again, kissed Visenya’s cheek, did the same with Daenerys but was pushed away by Rhaenys.

“Go speak with father.” She seemed sad, but her voice was dismissive.

Troubled by his sister’s rejection but not wanting to cause a scene, he left with Ser Oswell without a word. The drawbridge to access the holdfast had been lowered in the early morn and by now the halls were beginning to fill with activity. Aegon smiled and politely acknowledged those who stopped to greet him but his determined gait along with the Kingsguard who walked beside him discouraged any interruptions.

His father was not alone in his solar. Grandmother was present as was Lyanna. The latter sat away from the King and his mother. By the expression the Queen wore on her face, Aegon wondered how just how intense the quarrel was which he had missed.

“Sit Aegon,” Rhaegar said, sparing no pleasantries. Aegon’s hackles rose at his father’s tone but he listened and took a seat across from the King and the Dowager Queen. His seat was well cushioned and molded around his back and yet Aegon’s discomfort only grew.

“You look troubled father.” He stated. His words carried no ill intent, but he saw his grandmother’s eyes narrow.

Rhaegar merely looked weary. “I watched your grandmother trade words with the aptly named Queen of Thrones for over an hour. You should thank me for sparing you from that verbal jousts.”

Aegon swallowed uneasily. “The Paxter twins were her grandchildren as well; I hope Lady Olenna understands that we are committed to bringing the King’s justice to those responsible.”

“Lady Olenna has been assured, though I believe she remains unconvinced and wanting of a wolf’s pelt. Never mind that. Highgarden and more importantly, the Arbor, will have their due in other ways.” His father’s tone was cryptic.

Rhaella spoke then and her voice lashed like a whip. “Chief among Mace Tyrell’s concerns was not only the death of his nephews but of a certain Crown Prince and his sister dishonoring a Lord Paramount’s daughter.”

Words left Aegon then. His heart dropped. He looked to Lyanna whose eyes were full of rue. She smiled sadly.

Rhaegar spoke, his voice flat. “By your look of confusion, I suspect you two thought that you were being careful. Discreet even. I can assure you that is the furthest notion from the truth.”

 _Mace and the old hag knew? Who told them?_ Aegon thought of Margaery but discarded the idea almost immediately. _Why would she tell, it would serve her nothing? No, it was not her._ Few knew of his and Rhae’s escapades with the jewel of Highgarden but there was one who undoubtedly disapproved. _Loras._ He would deal with that Kingsguard later. Aegon knew that he needed to work hard to salvage the situation. He only wished Rhaenys was here to help him. She would know what to say. “Father-” He started but was interrupted immediately.

“Imagine my surprise, when the fat lord of Highgarden accuses not only my heir but also my eldest of taking advantage and turning his only daughter into their personal whore.”

Aegon thought of the day when Rhaenys had him shackled and blindfolded and then surprised him with Margaery. The filth that his sister had whispered about his betrothed… _Perhaps father does have a point._

“Do you find this funny?” Rhaegar questioned. Aegon realized that in his recollection of that memory, his face had betrayed a smile.

“No, father,” Aegon answered. He shifted in his seat. Panic or anger would not serve him well here. He would need to remain calm. “I can assure you that Margaery remains a maiden.” _Well mostly._ He decided not to elaborate.

Rhaegar glowered. “Do not lie to me, boy. I know she visited you last night when I ordered you to return to your chambers alone. The question is how long have you and your sister acted with such recklessness and in complete disregard of the expectations of both of your statuses?”

His face must have betrayed his shock for the Dowager Queen spoke next. “Who do you think the Kingsguard serve? Ser Loras spoke of helping his sister sneak into your chambers when put to question. So as long as your father lives, they will hold his secrets, not yours.”

Aegon sighed. “Rhaenys and I may have acted prematurely, I will admit but Margaery came of her own volition.”

Rhaegar shared a glance with his mother. The two shook their heads. Aegon’s eyes narrowed.

“Do you think that matters, Aegon? When a lord places his daughter in the King’s household, he expects her to be protected and her virtue to remain untarnished. By your actions and that of your sister, you have both willfully disregarded any such pact that I have made with Lord Tyrell. Do you understand that?” Rhaegar asked sharply. Once again Aegon found himself on the receiving end of Rhaegar’s rare outburst.

Aegon clenched his fist in an effort to not respond in equal tone to his father’s. “Margaery and I were to be wed anyway. Mace Tyrell can be assured that I intend to wed his daughter and treat her like a Queen. I will speak to him and Lady Olenna myself if need be, explain to them that I acted with too much haste in my affections. We are young. Surely, they will understand.”

Rhaegar’s gaze darkened. “And what of your sister?”

Aegon thought the answer was obvious. “I will marry her as well.” He pressed on even as a look of disbelief came upon his father’s face. “There is a precedent. Most recently yourself for that matter. And you plan to arrange a polygamous marriage for Jon, why is it so difficult to conceive the same for me? I love Rhaenys more than you ever loved my mother and Margaery enjoys the company of my sister just as much as she does mine. The marriage makes sense especially when the dragons come again.”

Rhaegar grew quiet. His stare was piercing. Aegon did not give his father the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. Instead, he held the stare. Finally, his father looked away. “I had thought you were not a fool. None of my children are but lately, you have made me wonder how I could fail so utterly at preparing you to rule yourself let alone a kingdom. But is clear to me now, I have raised both a whore and a fool.”

Aegon’s calm broke. He slammed his fist on the arm of his seat. “You can berate all you like but you will not berate my sister.”

“Rhaegar, stop it.” Those sharp words came from Lyanna. Rhaegar glanced at his Queen. It was far from the usual warmth his gaze normally held. She did not flinch.

Rhaella ignored her good-daughter. “Do you know how difficult it was for your father to take a second queen? The Faith alone may have rebelled if the high lords did not overrule them, and even then, if they had the warrior-sons your father may have had to turn around and face another rebellion soon after he was coronated. That speaks nothing of Dorne. There is a reason that you and brother fostered with his uncles and not yours. The notion of arranging an accident for the son that stands in his nephew’s way of inheriting the throne is not something Ned Stark would ever contemplate. I wish that the same could be said of Prince Oberyn. Do you think the family of your pretty little plaything would not be above of taking drastic measures to ensure that their daughter’s children ascend to the throne?”

Aegon’s jaw clenched. “Margaery is the one I would be married to, not her family and she would never do such a thing.”

Rhaella scoffed. “That girl’s teats and pretty smile have blinded you. She is Olenna Tyrell come again. Read up on your history, Egg. There are lessons there that will grant you wisdom. Olenna was set to marry uncle Daeron and she may have very well have become queen when Daeron’s elder brothers broke their betrothals. Yet, uncle Daeron paid more attention to his knight than he ever did his betrothed. The Queen of Thornes may want everyone to believe she wears that moniker with a badge of honor but she is named that because she was spurned.”

Rhaegar laced his long fingers. “Your grandmother speaks truly. Consider yourself fortunate that the Tyrells’s ambition greatly outweighs their piety. A more pious lord might consider the betrothal broken due to bad faith or even demand a forfeit of the dowry. Yet, Mace Tyrell was quick to accept a finalized date for marriage. You claim to care for the girl, see to it that you treat her as your future queen rather than your whore.”

Aegon stared at his father in disbelief. He cared deeply for Margaery but given a choice to spend a lifetime with a single woman, he would choose Rhaenys without fail. They were meant to be together. “You can’t do this.”

Rhaegar nodded. “Actually, I can. A king can do a great many things.”

Aegon scowled. “And what of my sister?! What do you intend to do with Rhaenys?”

“Your sister is an even greater disappointment. If this were any other time, I would have half the mind to marry her to a hedge knight or better yet send her to the Silent Sisters for a few years, so she could atone for her mistakes. Fortunately for her, Renly Baratheon remains unwed and very much accepting of a Targaryen bride. She can serve our family by ensuring the loyalty of the Storm Lords.”

 _This cannot be._ The thought of his sister being forced to marry and worse yet, bear children of another man was sickening. He stood in rising anger. “Have you learned nothing? Every single betrothal you have made for us has turned poorly. Daenerys is miserable with Quentyn, Viserys found happiness in spite of what fate you saw to dictate for him and Jon ran away and may very well die all because he was denied Daenerys’s hand. Yet, you repeat the same mistakes!”

Rhaegar glared. “Such are the sacrifices that royalty must make. The tourney will commence in three days time and at the end, you will marry Margaery and your sister will marry Renly. Understand that this is your fault. If you had shown the ability to think with your head rather than your cock, then your betrothal could have been broken with greater tact and then you would have married your beloved sister. But a polygamous marriage for the Crown Prince? As if I want your brother to return dragons to the world only for our family to dissolve into another dance of the dragons in a few decades time. No. I will not allow it.”

Aegon held his head high. “And if I refuse?”

Rhaegar rose to his feet. “You are a man now and I will acknowledge that you have the power to decide upon such an action. Realize, however that I have the power to unmake you as my heir. Make no mistake Aegon, if you challenge me then this is no idle threat. I will have you disinherited and banished.”

Aegon heard both his grandmother and goodmother suck in a breath. He nodded. _I need to speak to Rhaenys._ “Very well, father.”

Before he could leave the room, Rhaegar spoke again. “You have made me look a fool once, Aegon. I will not have it happen again. You and Rhaenys are forbidden from being alone together until I deem otherwise. Upon your marriages, your sister will return with her husband to Storm’s End where she can work to establish her household. You and your bride will journey to Summerhall where you can work upon getting an heir. At a later date, I intend for a royal procession so that we can quell any ill will that results from this tragedy. You will do your brother a favor and listen to the concerns of the lords affected. Prove to me that you are worthy of being the Crown Prince.”

Aegon nodded woodenly. He understood his father now. _I need a dragon to make him listen to me._ “Am I free to leave?”

Rhaegar looked to his two queens. First his wife and then his mother. Then he turned again to Aegon. “Your grandmother sought fit to give you a history lesson. I will give you one as well. There once was a Prince who showed great promise. No one could deny that he was charming. Nearly beyond measure. He was handsome, athletic and a knight of great talent. Friends came to him easily and women even easier. He spared himself no trouble abstaining from them even when married to his sister-wife. When he ascended to the throne, he took care of those friends and many thought he would soon become one of the great kings of our line.”

Aegon interrupted. “I know of the Unworthy, father. You need not remind me.”

Rhaegar affixed a piercing stare upon him. “I am not talking about the Unworthy, Aegon. I speak of your grandfather. Today, you remind me of him more than you ever have. Food for thought. Now you may leave.”

 

**Daenerys Targaryen**

“What are you doing here?” Daenerys asked her knight. They stood in the only portion of the castle where she was sure that they could not be overheard. The Godswood.

“The tourney of course.” Ser Daemon’s smile was as infuriating as it was alluring. He stepped closer. Close enough that she could see the blue of his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks.

“Truly?” Her brow rose, and her arms remained crossed. “Your note stated otherwise.”

“Well… that is not the only reason of course.” He hesitated for a moment and then his hand rose to play with her hair. She grabbed his wrist before he could stroke her face. “I came for your favor, it will provide me with all the motivation I need to win the jousts and crown you as the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

She could not help but smile at his overwhelming confidence “You are quite confident of your abilities. This is the largest tourney since Harrenhal. Four thousand knights and their squires have journeyed here for their chance at glory. I am sure that there are a few of them who could best you.”

Daemon shrugged. “You have me seen ride these past three days; you know I have the skill.” She had seen him ride. Daemon began at the bottom of the lists. He was largely unknown outside of Dorne and so his first opponents were hedge knights, squires, men-at-arms and landed knights. The early jousts were massive clashes with seven combatants riding against seven combatants for three passes. If neither fell, then they would trade their lances for their chosen weapon and battle until their opponent submitted or was broken entirely. Daemon was even more skilled with a morning-star than he was with a lance. Thrice he had traded his lance for the blunted weapon and thrice he had bludgeoned his opponents into submission. One was so severely beaten that the maesters doubted if the young man would ever be able to wield a sword again. That match had earned him favor with the crowd. Even Daenerys’s mother had taken notice of his skill.

“The knights of tomorrow will provide a greater challenge.” Daenerys countered. Most of the high lords and their knights had yet to take the field, including her nephew and the Kingsguards. Even the Northmen who had arrived during the three days of mourning were expected to participate. Most of the northern knights participating in the jousts hailed from White Harbor but there was no shortage of Northmen who would fight in the great melee. For all his valor and confidence, with such great competition, the chances of Daemon’s defeat were quite high. She would prefer if he focused on keeping himself safe rather than focus on crowning her.

“They will but I will have the Warrior beside me. And hopefully, the favor of a princess.” His look was disarming, and she had to consciously steel herself as to not give in to his request.

“Daemon, you know that is not wise. What would everyone think?”

His answer came quickly and with conviction. “That the bastard has eyes in his head. Crowning a Queen of Love and Beauty is exactly what it sounds; a celebration of her beauty and yours is unrivaled. Anyone can see that, and none would think that I am being anything but appreciative.”

She lifted her head and affixed him a pointed look. “And what would Quentyn think? I can’t imagine him being appreciative of a man in his employ crowning his wife.” The last word was voiced with some difficulty. She did not despise her husband, but she despised being tied to him.

“I don’t care what Quentyn thinks. If he doesn’t want another man to crown you then he should win himself.”

“You seem to have an answer for everything.” She said dryly. Yet, his unwavering conviction made her heart quicken. Daemon was a man blessed with charm and she was far from immune.

They were beneath the canopy of a great oak and the silence and tranquility of the woods was a most welcome reprieve from the crowded halls of the Red Keep. Her days had been occupied with assisting Rhaegar and Lyanna in matters wherever she could be of help. As such, she did not have the time to answer Daemon’s letter until now. Yet, she had felt the weight of his persistent gaze. Her mother had noticed that as well.

 _“At least talk to the boy. He is likely to stare a hole into your head if you don’t.”_ Her mother had told Daenerys that she would be supportive, but Daenerys had hardly anticipated her being this supportive. She had warned her though that whatever she decided with Daemon needed to be discreet. Rhaegar was already angry at her niece and nephew for their transgressions and her mother did not want that anger directed at Daenerys.

“I have been thinking of this moment for months. Dorne is not the same without you, Dany.”

“I am sure the sand is still there along with a distinct lack of water.” She joked.

He shook his head. “You know what I mean.”

She did. The memories of their secretive nights came in successive flashes. Lingering looks had quickly become stolen kisses and those kisses had gradually evolved into much, much more. Heat pooled in her belly. “We promised each other to bring this to an end. You know the consequences.”

Daemon stared at her intently. “The consequences have changed, haven’t they? Quentyn will never win your heart.”

She saw no reason to lie. “No, but that does not mean-”

“And you are enjoying yourself in the capital too much to ever return to Dorne. There is no need to deny it, Daenerys. I see the happiness on your face when you interact with people, particularly the smallfolk. And that happiness is increased tenfold by those you come in contact with. This city has been made better by you.” She was surprised by just how correct Daemon’s assessment was without ever speaking to her since his arrival.

Her eyes narrowed. “What is your point, Daemon?”

He was not perturbed by her tone. Instead, he knelt before her. “Quentyn came here to win you. I see that is a doomed effort. Instead, I have come to swear myself to you.” His sky-blue eyes stared up at her. The emotion that they held was so intense that she doubted she could bring herself to look away even if she desired to do so. “I will crown you as Queen of Love and Beauty. This I swear and then I will offer myself to you. Do with me as you wish. My love and loyalty belongs to you.”

She breathed deep. As far as she could tell, Daemon had never lied to her. The implication of his words stirred primal emotions deep within her. “I have no shortage of guards.”

Daemon grinned. “Then you can have one more. A sworn sword that will defend you better than a Kingsguard.” He spoke again before she could reply. “There is a precedent. The Good Queen had her own guard and so did Rhaenyra. Larra Rogare brought with her a bodyguard from Lys. Your namesake’s sworn sword followed her to Dorne.” _He has studied his history. How long has he been planning on asking me this?_

“Queen Alysanne’s sworn sword was a woman, Larra Rogare’s was a mute eunuch, two of which you are neither.” She leaned in close, so her meaning was not missed. “The results of Rhaenyra’s _actions_ with her sworn swords were one of the chief contributors for a war. So those are rather poor examples.”

“Well, I am not a woman and I know you don’t want me to become a eunuch.” She flushed when he winked at her. “And you are not the heir to the throne.” He looked at her belly. “If I am ever lucky enough to make that swell then I will take full responsibility.”

Daenerys did not allow herself to ponder that possibility. “You said that I can do with you as I wish, correct?”

Daemon nodded. “Correct.”

“And if I were to ask you to return to Dorne? To never attempt to speak with me again?”

He faltered at her words. The visible pain on his face made her heart ache. “Then I would do so if that is what you wished.”

Daenerys studied him, searching for any trace of a lie. She could find none. Yet, she could not find it in herself to send him away. Daemon was the center of her fondest memories of Dorne. She was loathed to completely sever that relationship now especially with his display of devotion. Her hand touched his shoulder, bidding him to rise. He towered over her and this close she had to crane her neck to look at him. “Let us see if your confidence is misplaced but I am sorry to disappoint you, I have already given my favor to Quentyn.” Her husband had come to her before the Tourney had started and there was no tactful way for her to refuse his request.

Daemon smiled ruefully. “Very well, I guess I will just have to settle for a kiss.” Gently, he pressed her against the trunk of the oak they were sheltered under. Her head tilted under the guidance of his hand. The brush of their lips was brief but hers parted instinctively, looking for more.

This could be all that she allowed herself. He saw the resolve on her face and stepped back before she could voice any words. “I wish you good fortune, Ser Sand.”

Her knight nodded and stepped back. In the moonlight, his blue eyes looked almost grey...

Alone she made her way to the heart tree in the center of the Godswood. The heart tree loomed above her. At the base of the great oak were dragon’s breath flowers. She picked one and let its sweet scent fill her nose. The smell brought back a wealth of memories. Her hands brushed away the snowberry vines that covered the trunk. It was too dark to see the carving in the wood but her fingers tracing the indentations were all that she needed. _J + D_.

The two who had carved this were so young. Naïve but hopeful. _How wrong we were._

_*_

The roar of the crowd was absolutely incredible. She could feel the sound reverberate in her bones. Armored bodies and horses smashed against one another. The clash of steel filled the air along with savage war cries and grunts and screams. Shields splintered. Breastplates dented. Chainmail crunched, and bones broke. Dirt of the tourney ground had been reduced to a mud pit. Over a hundred and fifty horses, laden with their armored riders, had churned the dirt beneath them and now the ground was slick and treacherous. For hours they had battled as their numbers gradually dwindled. Some admitted their submission. Others were called out by spotters who stood at the edge of the melee, eyes carefully watching the many duels for a victor. Alliances had been forged and broken. Along with many bones and even more gruesome injuries.

An hour after sunrise the melee had started. Now the sun hung low and only the greatest still stood. Amongst them was her nephew. His midnight black armor still looked magnificent even caked with mud and dented at the shoulder.

Aegon had begun the day with a mace that had blunted spikes. Now with the field dwindled and the competition fierce, in his hand, he held his Valyrian Steel longsword. The magnificent blue blade had drawn a chorus of gasps when it was unsheathed. Dark ripples along its length announced the priceless value of the sword. Crimson streamers trailed from Aegon’s helm as he turned his horse to find a new foe.

A white armored knight with a cloak of golden roses came to meet him. _Ser Loras._ They met in a fierce clash of steel. Loras wielded a long axe yet the haft of the axe was split from a single swing of the spell forged sword. The Kingsguard raised his shield just in time to halt the high aiming blow.

“It looks like Egg wants to kill him. I wonder why.” Viserys mused. Her elder brother was seated next to her. In his arms, he held the slumbering Aerea while she held the alert Rhaella in her lap.

By now, the news of the situation between Aegon, Rhaenys and Margaery Tyrell had spread to the entirety of their family. Her mother had informed Daenerys of the details, along with Viserys. It would have been difficult to hide just why two important weddings between paramount families were occurring so soon and without prior announcement. Rhaenys had shared her frustrations with Visenya and now her niece could not look upon any of the Tyrells, particularly Margaery, without a glare.

Daenerys sympathized with her niece and nephew, truly, but she also understood Rhaegar’s anger with the precarious position that his two eldest children had placed him in. In the aftermath of the devastation wrought by Ghost’s attack, it was best that they kept Highgarden in their good graces. It made her think of her own marriage and how unlikely the annulment of it was. Her mother assured her that she would never need to return to Dorne, though she wondered what Rhaegar’s response would be if Quentyn or his father demanded her return.

“He wouldn’t. They both are true knights,” came the reply from Lord Stark’s eldest daughter. She was of an age with Visenya though taller, taller than Daenerys. Sansa was very pretty as well. Her skin was pale, unblemished and she had vivid blue eyes with thick auburn hair that reached past her bosom. Viserys’s daughter had braided flowers in both Daenerys’s and Sansa’s hair and the petals complimented Sansa’s dress. In Sansa’s lap sat Shaena, Viserys’s youngest had taken a particular liking to Sansa. A sentiment shared by her father.

Rhaegar used the tourney as an opportunity to hold an extended audience with many of his lords. Lord Stark and Lord Arryn sat close to him now. For those that he did not have time to entertain, he had instructed his children and Daenerys to attend them. She had endured many questions from the Lords and Ladies of Dorne as to when she would return south of the Red Mountains though the most awkward time by far had been spent sitting next to Myrcella Tully.

Perhaps her dislike of the girl was irrational, but Daenerys could not help but feel something gnaw upon her insides whenever she looked upon Tywin Lannister’s granddaughter. Even now, Daenerys could see her across the yard. She sat next to her mother and the pair made a striking sight. Myrcella wore Lannister crimson while Cersei was clad in a brilliant white dress. They looked more like sisters in truth, Myrcella’s golden curls fell down her back and she had her mother’s face with full lips that smiled easily. They both had made half-hearted attempts to hold a conversation but quickly ran out of small talk and fell silent.

Daenerys knew that Tywin and Rhaegar were determined to see Myrcella and Jon’s betrothal fulfilled. Tyrion’s words echoed in her head. _She would make a dutiful wife who would do her best to keep her husband happy._ She could see no evidence to refute that claim. Myrcella also had wit to pair with her beauty, based upon her banter with her Uncle Gerion. _Yet, Jon abandoned the life that he could have had with her._

Four years ago, when she had heard the news, Daenerys had thought Jon would come for her. They both knew the story of how their grandparents, (well…her grandparents and his great-grandparents) Jaehaerys and Shaera had eluded their guards to wed in secret. Hope and anticipation fueled her. She waited and waited until those feelings turned to pain. _Instead, he found another._ She wondered how magnificent the girl from Volantis had been. _If she had lived, would he have ever returned?_

Screams emanating from the crowd stirred her from her musings. They were not sounds of excitement but ones of horror. Her eyes took in the sight and a gasp escaped her lips.

Aegon’s horse bucked and heaved in agony. Blood spurted from the gaping hole where its right eye had been caved in. Pinned beneath its convulsing bulk was her nephew, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle.

“Oh no” Sansa said. She looked ready to retch.

The melee still swirled around the fallen Prince; the competitors were too focused to realize what captured everyone’s attention until a loud horn was sounded.  Ser Loras was the first one to reach Aegon. He pulled his dagger from his belt and slit the stallion’s throat, ending its suffering. A small army of squires and maesters reached Aegon moments later. As one they lifted the horse’s corpse enough so they could slide Egg’s leg free.

“Well, there goes my hundred golden dragons,” Viserys muttered. Rhaegar aided by his Kingsguard and the Gold Cloaks shoved past the crowd of onlookers, so he could reach Aegon.

“Viserys.” Daenerys scolded.

“What? He will be fine.” Viserys answered. “Though, Loras is lucky he comes from an important enough family. I wonder if my brother will settle for sending him to the Wall. Trying to cripple the heir is treasonous.”

“Surely, Ser Loras did not mean it. It was an accident.” Sansa protested.

Viserys looked doubtful though he remained quiet. Daenerys cursed herself for not paying attention. She knew that Aegon and Loras had a fierce rivalry formed from years of competing against each other in the tourney circuit. Yet, she had trouble believing a Kingsguard would seek to permanently cripple a member of the royal family. Especially, the one meant to be the next King.

The crowd waited with bated breath as Aegon was lifted into a litter. Blessedly, he held up his fist as the Maesters carried him away. A roar of relief rippled through the crowd.

“Told you!” Viserys gloated. In response, she showed Rhaella how to make a vulgar gestured directed at her father. “Your aunt is a bad influence,” Viserys whispered to his little girl.

Rhaella giggled. “Uh-uh.” She protested. Daenerys kissed her forehead in thanks.

Rhaegar departed the grounds with Aegon and a team of maesters. Lyanna returned; her expression grim. The Queen seated herself between her brother and Lady Ashara Dayne. In their company sat Lord Stark’s wife, Lady Catelyn, her sister Lysa and the aged Jon Arryn. While she knew Catelyn was the eldest of the Tully sisters, Daenerys would have been mistaken if she had to have guessed based upon looks alone. Lady Catelyn was slim, handsome and bright-eyed while her younger sister looked at least ten years older, heavyset with blotchy skin that was poorly concealed by powder. Ashara squeezed the Queen’s hand in comfort. Several minutes passed as the horse’s corpse was cleared from the ground. Lyanna gave the order and the melee began once again.

This time, the combatants forewent their steeds in favor of fighting on foot. Most traded their swords, maces and war hammers for two-handed pole axes and halberds, though there were a few notable exceptions. The aptly named, Mountain that Rides, Ser Gregor Clegane, opted for a massive two-handed great sword.

“Woe to anyone that faces him,” Viserys muttered. Daenerys agreed. Most of the knights remaining were big men, made bigger with their armor yet Ser Gregor dwarfed them all.

She knew that he was favored to win the melee. His grey plate and pauldrons bore dents and scratches yet so considerable was Ser Gregor’s strength that several who had dared to face him laid screaming in agony. He had a powerful voice to match his body and his war cry was akin to the sound of an avalanche. The Westerlands were well represented as Ser Gregor’s younger but not much smaller brother, Sandor Clegane, had also lasted along with Ser Addam Marbrand and Lord Quenton Banefort.

The most colorful and animated of the combatants was the Red Priest, Thoros of Myr. The Priest had ruined several of his swords today by setting them alight with wildfire. Yet, despite his theatrics and the copious amount of wine that he had drunk when not on the field, the man was undoubtedly skilled. Ser Arys Oakheart was the lone Kingsguard still standing. Ser Oswell had not entered the melee or the lists due to his injured hand. Ser Walder abstained, much to the disappointment of those who wished to see the White Giant fight the Mountain That Rides and Ser Loras had departed with the King and Aegon. Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime had long since departed to Volantis. While their purpose remained secret to anyone outside a select few, the absences of the most legendary of the Kingsguard had been noted.

The North was not without its representation. Lord Umber, known as the Great Jon had battered many knights over the course of the day as had his son and heir, the Small Jon. Lord Umber stood two inches over Seven Feet and had the bulk and beard to match. His son was shorter, though likely not for much longer and no less fierce. He had defeated Robb Stark, much to Sansa’s and Arya’s disappointment.

Tall, lean and graceful, Ser Lyn Corbray honored his house and the Vale of Arryn with his skill. In his hand, he held the fabled longsword, Lady Forlorn. A beautiful blade of Valyrian steel which the knight had used to slay several Dornishmen at the Trident.

For Dorne, there were two. Archibald Yornwood, one of Quentyn’s closest friends, was recognizable even with a muddied and torn surcoat that obscured the Black Porticullus that was his family’s coat of arms. He was six and a half feet tall, broad of shoulder and huge of belly. Archibald also had the favor of the Dornish host behind him. Whenever he turned to them and beat his fists against his breastplate, hundreds yelled back in answer.

Gerold Dayne was silent in contrast. Instead, he struck as fast as a viper. Archibald was the first man to fall to Dayne’s halberd. Ser Gerold hooked Archibald’s long axe with the head of his weapon and yanked it away. The butt of the halberd bashed Yornwood’s skull before he could recover. The Dornish host booed him in protest.

“Gerold, never willing to share the glory,” Ashara said.

“If he tries to challenge the Great Jon, there will be no glory for him.” Daenerys heard Ned Stark reply. She had tried not to look at the Lord of Winterfell if it could be avoided. He looked too much like Jaehaerys and the thought of what her nephew might be enduring at this moment, made enjoying this tourney impossible.

She knew that sentiment was shared by not just her family but the Starks as well. Yet, they could not pause everything; to sit and worry. Still, she felt useless. _If only I had a dragon myself._ Daenerys had little martial skill but that had not stopped Queen Rhaenys or the Queen Who Never Was from going to war. Burning those responsible for hurting her nephew and engineering the attack would bring her infinitely more enjoyment than sitting here.

The crowd collectively winced as Ser Addam Marbrand was battered to his knees by Ser Gregor. Ser Addam held up a hand in defeat yet Ser Gregor either did not see the gesture or chose to ignore it. He brought his great sword down in a vicious two-handed swing. Addam’s helm split under the force of the blow and Ser Gregor had to put a foot on the Knight’s thigh to yank the sword loose. A spray of blood and brain erupted from the torn steel.

This time Sansa did retch. Daenerys fought the urge to do the same. Cries of outrage sounded throughout the yard. The loudest came from the Queen. Lyanna stood from her seat. The fury was plain on her face. Her hand lifted to give an order, yet a knight shoulder charged into Ser Gregor before the order could leave her lips.

Clegane stumbled yet righted himself before he could fall. His greatsword swung wildly. His opponent deftly avoided the sword and struck Ser Gregor’s thigh with the head of his war hammer. Rather than collapse, Ser Gregor surged forward. The two knights collided in a great clash. Gregor’s opponent was a large man himself though nearly a half a foot shorter than the Mountain. The massive man grabbed the war hammer by the head and with a cry and a great feat of strength, sent it flying from the other knight’s grasp.

Yet, before the Mountain could lift his sword to strike, the man battered him with his oaken shield. Daenerys saw a flash of yellow and black on the shield. “Which house is he from?” She asked.

“House Caron of Nightsong,” Sansa answered.

Daenerys’s brow furrowed. “No, the colors are wrong.”

“They are reversed,” Sansa replied. Daenerys was impressed, and Sansa was correct. Instead of black Nightingales on yellow, the knight bore the yellow birds on a field of black.

Gregor’s great sword was sent flying. Weaponless, the two juggernauts grappled. Ser Gregor threatened to overpower the man with his sheer size and strength until the Knight of Nightsong delivered a vicious headbutt. Their helms collided. The Mountain’s faceplate dented, yet he still struggled. The Knight of Nightsong followed with a kick to Gregor’s wounded thigh. He collapsed to one knee. His opponent did not give him time to recover. Wood splintered as the Knight of Nightsong brought his shield down upon the Mountain until finally, he grew still.

Victorious, the Knight of Nightsong fell to his knees by Ser Addam’s body and raised his hands and dipped his head in prayer. Silence abounded once again. The other combatants had halted their fighting.

Everyone watched with bated breath as Sandor Clegane approached the man who may have very well killed his brother. Clegane dropped his poleaxe and lifted his faceplate. The right side of his face was blackened and horribly scarred. Daenerys winced at the sight as did Sansa.

The Knight of Nightsong stood to regard the man, His exhaustion was evident in the way he held his shoulders. To everyone’s shock, Sandor Clegane grabbed the man’s wrist and raised his arm in triumph.

“You have your champion!” Sandor Clegane boomed. Eyes turned to Queen Lyanna and when she nodded, the cheers were louder than they had ever been.

“Throw Ser Gregor in a cell.” Lyanna started once the deafening cries had been reduced. To the Maesters who stood at ready, she ordered, “Ensure you keep him alive until he can be executed for his crime of murder.”

The Knight of Nightsong approached and knelt before their seating. His cheeks were scarred by the pox, his eyes were a storm grey and his hair and heavy beard were coal black. Queen Lyanna stepped forward to address the man.

“What is your name, Ser?” The Queen asked.

The knight’s voice was deep and powerful. “Rolland Storm, Your Grace. The Bastard of Nightsong.”

“Ser Rolland you have brought honor to your house.” Lyanna praised. Her hair danced free in the wind. Atop her head sat a simple crown of gold. Her dress was a brilliant white trimmed with blue flowers along the sleeves and hem.

“You honor me, Your Grace, but any victory I have claimed today also belongs to the Warrior. Through him, I owe my strength.” Rolland Storm replied. _His humility will win him many admirers._ Daenerys thought.

Lyanna nodded. “Then I name you champion of the melee. Rise and let them see the Storm that toppled the Mountain.”

Ser Rolland rose. His eyes were fierce yet there was a smile on his face. He lifted a fist in triumph. This close and Daenerys could see the seven stars of the Seven engraved on his breastplate and the top of the hair shirt that lay beneath. _A true warrior of the Faith._

**Myrcella Tully**

“Grandfather is angry,” Myrcella told her twin along with her cousins seated at the table.

“Is he?” Joffrey did not spare her the time to look up from his plate.

 _Of course, he is._ She wanted to say but chose to remain quiet. Her twin had a temper. She had no desire to cause a scene in the middle of the feast. As direct family of the Hand of the King, they were granted the privilege of dining in the Queen’s Ballroom with the royal family along with the Starks, Arryns, Tullys, Tarlys, Daynes, and Tyrells.

“How do you know?” Her cousin and childhood friend, Rosamund asked.

“I just know” She could tell them of how her grandfather’s left eye twitched only when he was angry and needed to conceal it or that brief but sharp look that came upon his face when the Queen had condemned Ser Gregor to death. Both Ser Addam and Ser Gregor were Lannister bannermen; the latter had led her grandfather’s vanguard during the Greyjoy rebellion. As such, courtesy should have been extended to her grandfather in weighing in upon Ser Gregor’s judgement. Undoubtedly, he would have condemned Clegane to die all the same but it was the acknowledgment of his station that was important, not the ruling itself.

“He looks fine to me,” Joffrey said between chews of roasted chicken. _At least, he is using a fork._ Her brother was not a slob. Far from it. Though, he could be quite crass.

“Myrcella would know. She is the smarter twin.” Rosamund replied. Myrcella tensed, preparing to break up a fight.

Joffrey’s reply came with little delay. “And you’re the fatter copy. I’m surprised you could fit through the door.”

Myrcella winced and reached across her lap to squeeze her cousin’s hand. _Don’t cry._ She pleaded. As children, she and Rosamund looked similar enough that some mistook them as twins though Rosamund’s blonde hair was darker and straight compared to her curls. Over the years Rosamund had taken a liking to lemon cakes and other sweets. Too much of a liking. Her waist had thickened considerably, and her weight was now a sensitive topic. _Though it has not caused her to change her eating habits._ Myrcella pushed the ugly thought out of her mind.  

“Joffrey, that was cruel.” She scolded. There were a thousand barbs on the tip of her tongue though she knew there were a thousand more that Joffrey could produce.

He shrugged, stabbed his fork into his chicken and sipped his wine. Blonde hair fell loose around his shoulders. The bored look in his eyes disappeared immediately when he looked to the high table. Myrcella followed his gaze to the two silver-haired Princesses. Visenya had a thick book resting before her next to her plate of food. The book was closed now as she talked to the younger of the Stark girls. That was a surprise to see as the Princess read throughout the day, only lifting her head when one called her attention to something.

Myrcella had studied the Princess over the course of her stay in King’s Landing. She was very pretty in an unassuming sort of way. Often her hair was done with seemingly little care, left straight or held in a frazzled braid. Her dresses were plain, sometimes wrinkled and she wore little jewelry. Visenya seemed largely oblivious to the outside world and most of all, her admirers.

Such a nature was alien to Myrcella. Her mother always spoke of the importance of looking one’s best. _A beautiful woman has great power. One just needs to know how to wield it._ She would say. Myrcella knew that a smile, the touch of a hand, batting her eyes or even a simple laugh at a joke that was far from funny could win the adoration of both men and even other women. The lesson of being aware of the world around her and how to twist situations to her advantage was something instilled in her from a young age. Such a carefree, almost flippant attitude was as intriguing as it was alarming. She wondered if the girl was merely too sheltered and innocent to be concerned with court life or if she merely did not care.

“That woman is wasted on a Dornish man,” Joffrey said, speaking of Daenerys. Quentyn sat next to his wife, though even from far off Myrcella could see that they shared little affection. For every word Daenerys spoke to her husband, she spoke a hundred to her niece and the Stark girls. Quentyn Martell was hardly the ugliest man that she had ever seen but paired with such an incredible beauty, he may as well have been made of mud.

“You think that you could steal her?” Tyrek goaded her brother. She glared at him, but he merely flashed his handsome smile. He had a smile that could melt many maiden’s hearts. Like her brother, she knew that Tyrek preferred what was between their legs. Joffrey had no shortage of admirers though Tyrek was the closest person to who Joffrey could apply the title ‘Friend’.

Joffrey smirked. “It wouldn’t be so hard. I mean look at him, hard to believe that is the nephew of the Red Viper.”

“Why don’t you duel him, Joff? I am sure your superior skills with the sword will shame him and win the Princess over.” The words left Myrcella’s lips almost without her volition. _I wasn’t supposed to tease him._

Joff’s eyes flashed in anger and embarrassment when both Tyrek and Rosamund laughed. Lancel and his brothers joined in and soon half their table was laughing along. Joff’s lips curled cruelly. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Hope another keeps her occupied when Prince Jaehaerys returns, as if he will even spare at look at you when he really wants her.”

The humor bled from Tyrek’s face. “Joff, she is your sister, there is no need to-“

“It is true.” Joffrey interrupted. “We are all thinking it. Even grandfather. Well, especially grandfather.” Her throat dried and her eyes stung. Joff tilted his head and studied her. “No words of retort, sweet sister? Don’t worry, maybe he will like those breasts of yours and keep you as third wife.” Joff made a vulgar gesture with his tongue and fingers. “Perhaps, your sister-wives will find use for you as well. You’re pretty enough to make a fine whore.”

“You’re an ass.” Rosamund came to her defense.

“Better an ass than a pig,” Joffrey said dismissively. He sipped his wine again. Of the boys, only Tyrek had the courage to glare at Joff. Lancel stared at his plate while the twins, Martyn and Willem, did their best to pretend they hadn’t heard anything.

Myrcella stopped Rosamund from arguing further. Trading insults was one the few things that her twin excelled at. She stood. “You’re a poor brother.” She told him with all the emotion she could muster. It was a mystery to her if her twin was even capable of feeling remorse. Myrcella turned to leave but then another thought came to her. “My children will be dragonlords one day, and you can be sure they will love their mother. I would think carefully about that if I were you.” For once, Joffrey remained silent.

She stalked away. The threat may very well prove to be an empty one that she knew. Prince Jaehaerys had spent months in her company at the Rock and yet he left for Essos without a single warning. Joffrey had said that the Prince found her lacking and while their mother had never voiced the words, Myrcella knew she felt the same. She shoved her bubbling insecurities away. Somewhere deep within herself. Rather than leave the ballroom, she approached the side table where her mother and father were seated.

Her father was startled when she wrapped her arms around him from behind. He settled once he realized it was her. “Myrcella.” He said warmly. His fiery beard rubbed against her cheek when she pressed her face again his. It had been recently cut, low and very neatly lined in order to appease her mother. She would have preferred it gone entirely. Myrcella thought it made her father look dignified. “What troubles you?” He asked.

She placated his concerns with a kiss to cheek, an action that she repeated with her mother. “Nothing. I just merely wanted to stand and stretch my legs.”

“Fix your hemline, darling.” Her mother said, yet she reached over to do it herself. Her fingers brushed away the stray hairs that fell atop Myrcella’s shoulders. Those critical green eyes scanned Myrcella’s form for imperfections. Finding none, Cersei merely nodded.

“Myrcella, you look lovely.” Her Uncle Gerion said. Her Uncle was smartly dressed in a cream doublet trimmed by gold. Across his neck sat a golden chain and several gemstone rings adorned his fingers. Silver strands trimmed his long blonde hair and pointed beard. Laugh lines pulled at the corner of his eyes.

Tyrion nodded along in agreement, seated between the two was Gerion’s daughter, Joy. If anyone was perturbed by the presence of a baseborn girl in such esteemed company, they did not voice their reservations. Joy’s melancholic nature had disappeared with the return of her father and she was loathed to be separated from him after such a prolonged absence. Gerion did not have a bone in his body to deny his little girl.

“Thank you, Uncle.” She smiled warmly at Joy who returned a shy smile. Her head rested against her father’s shoulder. “How goes the construction?” Myrcella asked Tyrion.

“Slowly.” The Dwarf answered. She could see the stress plain on his face. “It is more of a demolition in truth and deconstructing the Dragonpit is more difficult than what we first thought.”

“Not to mention the caches of wildfire you nearly tripped over.” Gerion waved his finger. “We would not want anything to go boom.”

Tyrion shrugged. “Apparently, some of Rossart’s caches remained hidden. Nothing major, just four containers but even a small amount of wildfire is enough to make a man nervous.” He smiled ruefully and turned to Joy. “Especially, a dwarf.” That drew a laugh from the little girl.

Myrcella smiled. Her Uncles were quickly rising to figures of legend in the city and they were often absent from the dinners that her family had in the Tower of the Hand. She knew that it was due to choice rather than requirements of duty. Gerion never had her grandfather’s approval for their journey and despite the illustrious circumstances of their return, there was still friction to be had between the two men. Tyrion was a different story. The wealth from the sale of materials brought back from Valyria and the position given to him by the King granted him both position and importance that was outside Tywin’s influence. Even as a girl, she knew that her grandfather held little affection for his youngest son and to her disappointment that had hardly changed. Tyrion even had a manse in the city, so he was even further from his father’s control. “There is no man better for the task, that I am sure.”

Further up the table sat her grandfather, granduncle Kevan, and grandaunt Genna. Along with the three senior Lannisters were their spouses. Genna’s husband, Emmon Frey, stared pointedly at her breasts and hips as she approached. He quickly dropped her gaze when he noticed her eyes. Emmon was a sharp contrast to his wife. Small, pale, bald, and nervous, even more so in such close proximity to her grandfather. She took the time to greet her aunt and uncle along with his wife. Emmon, she ignored. The greatest hug, she saved that for her grandfather.

To most of the Seven Kingdoms, Tywin Lannister was a man of immense influence. A figure to be respected and even feared…for good reason. Yet, to Myrcella he was a man that she both loved and admired.

Tywin tolerated her hug, even returned it by wrapping a single arm around her waist. She knew when to release him. Her grandfather’s smiles were rare. Always faint. A mere upturn of the lips but she thought she saw one now.

“Mycrella, you look most radiant.” Kevan praised. He was a big man with broad shoulders and a thick waist. The bald spot atop his head gleamed with the candlelight and his red doublet stretched tight across his belly.

“Thank you, uncle. You must be most proud of your sons.” Lancel, his eldest had been knocked out the lists early but Martyn and his twin Willem had distinguished themselves in the squires’s jousts. Tyrek was by far the best sword, followed by Joff though his skill was only had by the courtesy of natural ability and the urge to hurt something. The twins were not much behind.

“In a few years, one of them might prove good enough to crown you as Queen of Love and Beauty.” Lady Dorna said. Myrcella smiled uneasily. Despite her betrothal to Prince Jaehaerys, Kevan’s wife had never truly given up on the hope of wedding her to one of her sons. The lady was fortunate that her mother was not in hearing range as she was fond of reminding everyone that Myrcella was meant for royalty. Over the years, Cersei had discouraged many suitors, the sons of lords from both the Westerlands and the Rivers. _If I were to marry any of my cousins, then it would be Tyrek._ Granted Tyrek had always been a bit too focused on matching the reputation of his late father’s swordsmanship to pay any real attention to the many looks that he received but he was also the smartest of her boy cousins. The last thing that she wanted was a husband who would bore her to death with dull conversation.

She thought of Jaehaerys, wondering if he would be willing to tell her first hand of his journeys in the east. His smiles only came with a great effort, but she had never found his wit lacking. Four years with her uncles may have even given him a sense of humor.

“Have you spoken to the Queen tonight?” The voice of her grandfather interrupted her musings.

“No, grandfather.” A blonde eyebrow lifted above his piercing green eyes. _Get to it then._ They seemed to say.

She bid them farewell and made her approach to the high table. Myrcella knew that while her betrothal to Jaehaerys had been altered to include his little sister by the King himself, the Queen was not a fan of the proposal. _Understandable. Mother was quite livid._ Yet, her grandfather wanted the marriage to proceed all the same. _Aegon may be the Crown Prince but Jaehaerys is a Dragonlord._ She knew that it would take some time for the temple replacing the Dragonpit to be completed and longer before the other members of the royal family could claim dragons of their own. _At least for a time, he will be the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. Even greater than the king._ Intermixed in her excitement was an undercurrent of dread. For if she failed, the disappointment would be all the greater.

The King sat at the center of the table. Surrounded by his immediate family. To his left was his Queen, proved today to be both formidable as she was beautiful. To his right, was the Grand Maester. She remembered Maester Vyman’s complaining of Marwyn’s appointment. King Rhaegar had broken centuries of custom and tradition by choosing his own Grand Maester rather than one appointed by the Conclave. Marwyn was a controversial figure to those who knew him in the order. At least, according to Vyman. _More sorcerer than a man of science and learning._ Vyman would say. Yet, it was rumored that there was no man who held the King’s audience more.

Before she could ascend the steps to the high table, a side door to the Ballroom banged open. In rushed a young man in Maester’s robes. He stumbled in haste but righted himself before his face could meet the floor. Out of breath, the Maester bowed before the King.

“What is it?” King Rhaegar asked, bemused.

“Your Grace, a letter just came from Dragonstone.” The Maester produced said letter from his sleeve and handed it to the King.

The King’s expression was unreadable, yet he broke the wax seal with haste. Queen Lyanna read along with the King. A smile came to her first and then her eyes welled with tears. The others seated at the table took notice.

“What does it say?” Princess Rhaenys asked.

Both monarchs seemed lacking for words. It was Princess Visenya who answered though she sat far across the table and had not read the letter. “Jon is home.”

*

Myrcella was surprised that she was included in the royal family’s private meeting. Though, she was not the only non-Targaryen present in the King’s solar. Her grandfather sat next to her and both Gerion and Tyrion were present. The eldest of the Stark children were there as well along with their father. Lord Jon Connington hovered near the back of the room.

“What does the letter say exactly?” Prince Aegon asked. The Maesters had bound and splinted his left leg and he sat with it resting on a low-lying table. Next to him sat Princess Visenya, practically bouncing with excitement.

With a nod from the King, Maester Marwyn read the letter. “ _Prince Jaehaerys arrived sometime late in the night yet he was not discovered until today. He spent the night in the caves along the eastern edge of the island along with his dragon. What a magnificent beast it is. Protective as well as the dragon nearly scorched the riders sent to investigate. Perhaps for good reason. The Prince’s injuries are extensive. His right hand badly burned, multiple ribs are broken and there are tears in his back and leg that are nearly to the bone. He says he has received prior treatment though he will not elaborate by who. Nor as to how the injuries were received._

_He speaks few words and he grew wrought when I tried to question him further. The Prince ordered that a letter be written to his father announcing his arrival and that a message be given, “Volantis burns.”_

There was a collective intake of breath by nearly everyone in the room. “There was no mention of the Kingsgaurd.” Robb Stark said. He was seated directly across from Myrcella and next to him was Princess Daenerys. There was a troubled look in her eyes.

“No, they are less than half the ways to Volantis, at best.” The King answered.

“Jon escaped of his own volition then.” Princess Rhaenys spoke.

“And apparently set the city aflame. How much of Volantis does he mean is burning? A street? A district? Or the entire city?” Prince Aegon asked.

“We won’t know until the Kingsguards send word at the earliest. It is too late to recall them now unless the Prince wishes to find them at sea.” The Grand Maester said.

“No, my son needs his rest,” Rhaegar said. He looked both relieved and troubled by the news simultaneously. His fingers fanned through his silver hair. “I know you all wish to see him, but I cannot send everyone to Dragonstone nor do I want him flooded with unwanted attention by coming to court.”

“I am going.” The Queen spoke. By her tone, her words were not up for debate. The King smiled at his wife and nodded.

“I am not such a fool to try and stop you.” A small smile touched his lips.

“I am going too and Arya and Daenerys as well,” Visenya said immediately. Myrcella’s stomach twisted. As the Prince’s future wife, she should be at least one of the women sent to help him heal. Arya Stark nodded in agreement, but Daenerys’s face gave Visenya pause. “Only if you want to Dany.”

Daenerys looked to her mother first and then away from everyone’s eyes. “I have duties here and I don’t want to crowd him.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

“Dany,” Visenya whined. Hurt played across her face.

“Marywn, I am sending you as well. Gerion and Tyrion, both you spent more time with my son over the past four years than anyone else, it might help him to see your faces.” The King interrupted.

“Tyrion has a temple to build and women to entertain. I miss the Prince as well, so I will go.” Gerion japed. Tyrion smiled and nodded. Gerion added, “It might be best for Jon to be reunited with his wolf.”

“Nymeria can keep Ghost company.” Arya bit her lip. “She has never been on a ship before, but I think she will be okay.”

“Agreed, Lady Stark.” The King replied with a warm smile. The young girl blushed fiercely. His indigo eyes fell upon Myrcella then and her heart quickened. “Myrcella, I believe you should go as well. I do not know how long it will take my son to recover but now is a better time than ever for you two to become reacquainted.”

Myrcella nodded. She failed to ignore Visenya’s glare nor the way that Daenerys’s hands fisted her dress. Even the Queen looked displeased though she made no argument. _So much for my good family liking me._ The Queen had always been kind to her, but she supposed those feelings had changed now that Myrcella was supposed to share her son with her daughter.

Rhaenys and Aegon remained silent though the latter looked as if he wanted to argue with his father.

“We will set sail at first light.” The Queen said.

*

A thousand thoughts ran through her mind as she prepared for bed. Rosamund, Joy and her handmaidens, Laenna and Aiana had helped her pack and bathe. The excitement of the four other women was palpable and infectious. Though, Myrcella’s own excitement was tempered by the news of the Prince’s injuries. They sounded as if the Prince had returned from war.

 _I can help him recover._ She told herself. Her Uncle Gerion was rather forthcoming about details of their journey though he stayed mum whenever she questioned of their travels in the Smoking Sea. The boy that had come to Casterly Rock had been hardened by his travels. Now, it was not a boy that resided on Dragonstone but a man. _A Dragonlord._

Her door opened without a knock. She lifted her head, expecting her mother. Instead, in waltzed her brother. His hair was loose, tunic untucked. By the flush in his cheeks and the haze in his eyes, she could tell that he was quite drunk.

“What are you doing here?” She clutched the sheet tighter to her chest. It was too warm in her room, even at night with the window opened. The air was still and the breeze that normally cooled the room was absent. If she hadn’t expected her mother to come to see her before she slept, Myrcella would have slept in the nude. Now she only wore a thin cotton sleeping shift.

Joffrey smiled. “I came to see my sweet sister.” He spared a quick glance around the room, noticing they were alone.

“Well, you’ve seen me. You can leave now.” Her eyes narrowed when he moved closer and sat on the edge of her bed instead.

“I hear the Prince has returned and you are to go see him.” He fell back against her sheets, staring at the canopy above. “Nervous?”

The tension in her shoulders lessened slightly, though she did not release her grip on the sheet. “Who wouldn’t be?”

Joffrey shrugged. He rolled to his side to look at her directly. “You shouldn’t be. He will take one look at you and want you. And if he doesn’t then he is a fool.”

 _What game are you playing?_ His cruel words from earlier had not been forgotten. “Thank you, Joff. You should go now; the hour is late.”

Her twin ignored her words. “Do you really think that I am a poor brother?”

“I-” She faltered. His eyes held an intensity that made her uncomfortable. “You haven’t always been but lately, yes.” She admitted. It was the truth. Joffrey had been her close friend when they were younger but as they aged, he had changed drastically. And not for the better.

He frowned. “I could be a better brother. If you gave me a chance.”

She didn’t believe him. “Try being a better person first. Rosamund is my oldest friend and you are cruel to her at every opportunity.”

Joffrey’s lips narrowed. For a moment, his face looked akin to their grandfather’s. He looked away. “She was quite pretty before, like you, and now her looks have gone to waste. Why should I lie to her like everyone else?”

“Do you hear yourself? I am not asking you to lie but to be nice to her. She has never done you any wrong.” Her brother was handsome and as heir to Riverrun, the daughters of nearly every lord were clamoring to wed him. Yet Myrcella would pray for the mother’s mercy to whatever woman had the misfortune of dealing with him for the rest of her life.

Joffrey made a frustrated noise. “I didn’t come here to speak about Rosamund.” To her surprise, his hand grabbed her foot beneath the sheet. He gripped her ankle to stop her from jerking the leg away. “I don’t see why he should have his sister and _mine._ Especially, if he doesn’t want you.”

Her nostrils flared. Anger made her bold. “Get out, Joff!”

He was stronger than she thought. A single tug at her ankle pulled her from the headboard and then he was over her. Her legs tangled in the sheets, lessening the force of her kick but even without them, she doubted Joff would have been deterred. Years of martial training and his sex made him much stronger than her. “Stop it.” He growled. She slapped his face and fought until he pinned her wrist and settled his hips atop of hers.

Tendrils of fear tore at her heart. “Joff, stop please.” Instead of listening to her plea, he kissed her. Her mouth remained shut even as his tongue tried to force its way past her lips.

“Cella,” Joffrey said once he pulled away. She turned her head away. “Look at me,” Joffrey ordered. She refused. He gathered her wrists in one hand, squeezing them together painfully while his other hand gripped her chin. When he kissed her again, she bit down on his bottom lip. Hard.

Joffrey yanked away. Fury swirled in his eyes. For a brief moment, Myrcella thought he would strike her. Her body tensed. _Not my face._ A bruise there would be too visible. Yet, he surprised once again when he released her. She scrambled away from him.

Her brother’s fury vanished. He almost looked repentant. “Cella, I-”

“Please, just go.” Joff paused. He looked as if he would argue but only for a moment. He stood and left her room in a rush.

Myrcella sat still and breathed deep in an effort to calm her rapidly beating heart. She refused to let her tears fall, less her mother come in and see. Joffrey was their mother’s favorite and she ignored his faults or simply did not care. Her twin had enough charm to placate their father and he had always defaulted to her mother for most decisions.   _I will be on the way to Dragonstone tomorrow._ It was the only comfort that she needed. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 should be posted sometime mid-January. I promised an update before Christmas thus I split the chapter in half. Hope everyone appreciates this relatively quick update (for me). Comments are appreciated.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Edge of the World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15925436) by [rhaegars_harp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhaegars_harp/pseuds/rhaegars_harp)




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